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THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 



















































































































































































































































































































































































































Frontispiece — Then Marched the Brave. 

‘“I CAN SEE NO ONE BUT THE GENERAL,’ JANIE SAID.” 

See page 133. 



Then 


Marched the Brave 


4 


By 


Harriet T. Comstock 

Author of “When the British Came,” “Molly, the Drummer Boy,” 
etc. 


Illustrations by Anna S. Hicks 


PHILADELPHIA 

HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY 


LIBRARY CONGRESS 
Two Contes Received 


AUG 18 1904 


CooyrJjrht Entry 
• XtS - -- / 0[ o 

CLASS CL XXc. No. 


4- 

COPY 8 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 


Molly, the Drummer Boy 
When the British Came 



c o 


Fifty, gent's each 


Copyright, 1904, by Henry Altemus 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I TAGE 

Andy McNeal 13 

CHAPTER II 

A Stranger in the Night 26 


CHAPTER III 

The Crowning of Andy McNeal 43 

CHAPTER IV 


Through the Cave 62 

CHAPTER Y 

A Suspicion 74 

CHAPTER VI 

Then Marched the Brave 88 

CHAPTER YII 

Andy Hears a Strange Tale ..... 99 

CHAPTER VIII 

At Headquarters 118 

CHAPTER IX 

Peace 130 

vii 





ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAOE 


44 ‘I can see no one but the General,’ Janie said” 

Frontispiece 


y 


“ Andy was at the oars now ” 37 / 

“ * Good day, my pretty lass !’ ” 51 ^ 

“Burr ventured a question” 81 ^ 

11 It took all of Andy’s courage to don the female attire ” 113 / 


ix 






















- 







































THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 






THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


CHAPTER I 

ANDY McNEAL. 

I T was in the time when the king’s men had 
things pretty much their own way, and 
mystery and plot held full sway, that there 
lived, in a little house near McGown Pass on the 
upper end of Manhattan Island, a widow and 
her lame son. She was a tall, gaunt woman of 
Scotch ancestry, but loyal to the land that had 
given her a second home. She was not a 
woman of many opinions, but the few that she 
held were rigid, and not to be trifled with. With 
all her might she hated the king, and with equal 
intensity loved the cause of freedom. In the 
depths of her nature there was a great feeling 
of shame and disappointment that her only son 
was a hopeless cripple, and so could not be of- 
fered as a living sacrifice to the new cause. 


13 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


Janie McNeal held it against the good God 
that she, His faithful servant, must be denied 
the glorious opportunity of giving her best and 
all, as other mothers were doing, that the land 
of the free might be wrested from cruel tyranny. 

To be sure, Andy was hut sixteen. That mat- 
tered little to Janie; young as he was, she could 
have held him in readiness, as did Hannah of 
old, until the time claimed him— hut his lame- 
ness made it impossible. Among all fhe deeds 
of courage, he must stand forever apart! 

Poor Janie could not conceive of a bravery 
beyond physical strength. In her disappoint- 
ment she looked upon pale Andy, and she 
saw— she hated to acknowledge it— but she saw 
only cowardice written upon every line of the 
shrinking features ! The patient blue eyes 
avoided her pitying glance. The sensitive 
mouth twitched as the boy listened to her oft- 
repeated laments. Janie had never seen those 
eyes grow steely and keen; she had never seen 
the lips draw into firm lines, or the slim form 
stiffen as the boy listened to the doings of the 
king’s soldiers. When the neighbors came 


14 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


with thrilling tales of daring done by some 
loved one, Janie made some excuse for sending 
the boy upon an errand or to bed; the contrast 
was too bitter. 

And Andy, sensitive and keen from suffering, 
saw through it all and shrank, not from fear or 
cowardice, but unselfish love, away from the 
stir and excitement and his mother’s sigh of 
humiliation. He lived his life much alone ; mis- 
understood, but silently brave. His chance 
would come. Andy never once doubted that, 
and the chance would find him ready. 

And so he waited while the summer of 1776 
waxed hotter and hotter, and the king’s men, 
drunken with success after the battle of Long 
Island, pressed their advantage and impudence 
further, as they waited to see what the 4 ‘old 
fox,” meaning Washington, meant to do next. 
What his intentions were, no one, not even his 
own men, seemed to know; he kept them and 
himself well out of sight, and the anxious people 
watched and wondered and grew restless under 
the strain. 

Now upon a certain July night Janie McNeal 


15 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


and Andy were sitting at their humble meal. 
The door of the cottage stood open, and the 
song of evening birds made tender the quiet 
scene. Suddenly hurried, yet stealthy, steps 
startled them. Was it friend or foe? 

‘ ‘ ’Tis from a secret path, mother, ’ ’ whispered 
Andy, catching his crutch. He knew the way 
the king’s men came and went, and he knew 
the paths hidden to all but those who dwelt 
among them. His trained ear was never de- 
ceived. 

“ ’Tis a neighbor,” he murmured; “he comes 
down the stream bed.” 

Sure enough, a moment later Parson White’s 
wife ran in. Her face was haggard, and her 
hands outstretched imploringly. With keen 
appreciation of what might he coming, Janie 
McNeal put her in a chair, and stood guard 
over her like a gaunt sentinel. 

“To bed, Andy, child,” she commanded; 
“ ’tis late and you are pale. To bed!” 

Andy took the crutch, and, without a word, 
limped to the tiny room in the loft above. Boy- 
like, he was consumed with curiosity. He knew 
16 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


that the speakers, unless they whispered, could 
be overheard, so he lay down upon his hard 
bed and listened. And poor Margaret White 
did not whisper. Once alone with her friend, 
she poured out her agony and horror. 

“My Sam,” she moaned, “he is dead!” 

Janie and the listener above started. For 
three years Sam White, the erring son of the 
good parson, had been a wanderer from his 
father’s home. How, then, had he died, and 
where? The news was startling, indeed. 

“Margaret, tell me all!” The firm voice 
calmed the grief-stricken mother. 

“He was coming home to get our blessing. 
He heard his country’s call, when his ears were 
deaf to all others, and it aroused his better 
nature. He would not join the ranks until he 
had our blessing and forgiveness. Poor lad! 
he was coming down the pass last night, not 
knowing that it was sentineled by the enemy. 
He did not answer to the command to halt, and 
they shot him ! Shot him like a dog, giving him 
no time for explanation or prayer. Oh! my 
boy! my boy!” 


2 — Then Marched the Brave. 


17 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


Never while he lived would Andy forget that 
tone of bitter agony. 

“He’s dead! My boy for whom I have 
watched and waited. Dead ! ere he could offer 
his brave young life on his country’s altar. 
Oh! woe is me, woe is me!” 

For a moment there was silence, then Janie’s 
voice rang out so that Andy could hear every 
word. 

“As God hears me, Margaret, I would gladly 
give my ain useless lad, if by so doing, yours 
might be reclaimed from death. Your sorrow 
is one for which there is no comfort. To have 
a son to give; to have him snatched away be- 
fore the country claimed him! Aye, woman, 
your load is, indeed, a heavy one. To think 
of Andy alive, and your strong man-child lying 
dead! The ways of God are beyond finding 
out. It grieves me sore, Margaret, that it does. 
It seems a useless sacrifice, God forgive me for 
saying it!” 

The women were sobbing together. In the 
room above, Andy hid his head under the pillow 
to shut out the sound. Never, in all his lonely 
18 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


life, had he suffered so keenly. Love, pride, 
hope, went down before the hard words. In 
that time of great deeds, when the brave were 
marching on to victory or death, he, poor useless 
cripple, was a disgrace to the mother whom he 
loved. 

Where could he turn for comfort? He 
limped to the window, to cool his fevered face. 
He leaned on the sill and looked up at the stars. 
They seemed unfriendly now, and yet he and 
they had kept many a vigil, and they had al- 
ways seemed like comrades in the past. Poor 
Andy could not pray; he needed the touch of 
human sympathy. 

All at once he started. There was one, just 
one who would understand. But how could he 
reach her? The women in the room below 
barred his exit that way. A heavy vine 
clambered over the house, and its sturdy 
branches swayed under Andy’s window. No 
one would miss him, and to climb down the vine 
was an easy task even for a lame boy. 

Cautiously he began the descent, and in a few 
minutes was on the ground. He had managed 


19 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


to carry his crutch under his arm, and now, 
panting, but triumphant, he went quickly on. A 
new courage was rising within him— a courage 
that often comes with despair and indifference 
to consequences. No matter what happened, he 
would seek his only friend. 

He took to the stream bed. It was quite dry, 
and the bushes grew close. No prowling 
Britisher would be likely to challenge him 
there. Ah! if poor Sam White had been as 
wise. Andy’s face grew paler as he remem- 
bered. For a half-mile he pattered on, then the 
moon, rising clear and silvery, showed a little 
house near by the stream bed and almost hid- 
den by vines. 

Everything about the house was dark and 
still. Andy paused and wondered if he had a 
right to disturb even his one true friend. Noise- 
lessly, he drew near, and went around to 
the back of the house. Something startled 
him. 

i ‘Mother!” It was a young, sweet voice, and 
it came from the shadow of the little porch. 

“ ’Tis I, Ruth!” faltered Andy. 


20 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


“You, Andy! And why? Have you heard 
about our Sam?” The girl came out into the 
moonshine. She was tall and strong, and her 
face was very pretty. 

‘ ‘Yes; IVe heard, Ruth;” then, coming close, 
Andy poured out his misery to the girl who had 
been his lifelong friend and comrade. 

She listened silently, once raising her finger 
and pointing toward the house as if to warn 
him against arousing the others. When he had 
finished there was silence. It was not Ruth’s 
way to plunge into reply. 

“Come,” she whispered presently, “I am 
going to tell the bees. Hans Brickman told me 
to-night that His no fancy, but a true thing, that 
the bees will leave a hive if death come unless 
they are told by a member of the family. The 
bee-folk are overwise, I know, and I mean to 
take no chances of their leaving. With the 
British at hand, honey is not to be despised. 
Come.” 

Andy followed, wondering, but biding Ruth’s 
time. She was a strange girl in all her ways. 

Without speaking, the two went through the 


21 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


little garden and paused before the row of neat 
hives. Then Ruth bent before the first. 

4 ‘Sam’s dead!” she whispered, “but do not 
fear. We need you, so do not leave the hive.” 
From hive to hive she went, quite seriously re- 
peating the sentence in soft murmurings. Andy 
stood and looked, the moonlight showing him 
pale and intent. At last the deed was done, and 
Ruth came back to him and laid her firm, brown 
hand upon his shoulder. She was a trifle taller 
than he, so she bent to speak. 

“Not even your mother knows you as I do, 
Andy,” she said. “She thinks a lame leg can 
cripple a brave soul ; but it cannot ! Why, even 
being a girl could not keep me back if I saw my 
chance, and I tell you, Andy, your lameness may 
serve you well. I have been thinking of that. 
I do not believe God ever wastes anything. He 
c.an use lame boys and— even girls. Sam was 
not wasted. The call made him brave and 
good. He was coming home a new creature 
just because he had heard. When I saw him lying 
dead, shot by those lurking cowards, something 
grew in me here, ”— she touched her breast. “I 


22 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


have not shed one tear, but I loved him as well 
as the others. Somehow I knew that since he 
had been called, it was because he had a work 
to do, and since he is gone I mean to be ready to 
do his work. Andy, I am as strong as a boy, 
but— ” here her eyes sought his — “I am a girl 
for all that, but you and I together, Andy, can 
do Sam ’s work ! ’ ’ The young voice shook with 
excitement. 

“I, Ruth? Ah! do not shame me.” Andy’s 
eyes fell before the shining face. 

‘ ‘Shame you, Andy? I shame you— I who 
have loved you next best to Sam ! Come. 
Father has gone to bed, there will be time before 
mother returns. I want you to see Sam. ’ ’ 

With bated breath the two entered the living- 
room of the cottage. The place had been made 
sacred to the young hero who was so early 
called to his rest. Flowers everywhere, and 
among them Sam lay smiling placidly at his 
easily won laurels. 

For the first time Andy gazed upon the face 
of death. The gentle dignity and peace of the 
once wild boy awed and thrilled the onlooker. 


23 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


He was dressed in his Continental uniform that 
was unsoiled by battle’s breath, albeit, an ugly 
bole in the breast showed where the gallant 
blood bad flowed forth. 

“ It’s— it’s wonderful!” gasped Andy. 

‘ ‘ But we ’re not going to let him be wasted, are 
we Andy?” There was a cruel break in the 
girl’s voice. “ We ’ll do his work, won’t we? 
We’ll show the Britishers how we can repay, 
won’t we, Andy?” 

“Yes,” breathed the boy, unable to turn his 
eyes from the noble, boyish face, that was lighted 
by the gleam of the one lamp; “we’ll show 
them ! ’ ’ 

See, Andy” (Ruth had gone to a corner cup- 
board and brought forth a three-cornered cap), 
< ‘ this is Sam ’s ; I found it in the bushes. Mother 
says I may have it.” She placed it upon 
Andy’s head. “It just fits!” she exclaimed. 
“If the time comes, Andy, you shall wear the 
cap. It will be proof that I trust you. You 
will help if you can, won’t you? Promise, 
Andy. ’ ’ 

“I promise, as God hears me, Ruth.” 


24 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 

In the stillness the vow sounded awesome. 
The two clasped hands. All the sting was gone. 
A great resolve to be ready to dare and die made 
Andy strong and happy. 

“Good-by, Ruth.” 

“Good-by, Andy, lad.” 

Out into the still night the boy passed. On 
the way back he saw Mrs. White, but he hid 
beneath a bush until she had gone by. He 
reached home, found the door barred, and so 
painfully reached his room by the aid of the 
friendly vine. 


25 


CHAPTER II 

A STRANGER IN THE NIGHT 

T HAT was to be a night of experiences— the 
beginning, the real beginning of Andy’s 
life; all the rest had been preparation. 
After reaching his room, he flung himself 
wearily upon the bed. How long he slept he 
could not know, but he was suddenly aroused by 
a sharp knock on the outer door below stairs. 
He sat up and listened. All was still except the 
trickling of a near-by waterfall, which had out- 
lived the dry weather. 

For a moment Andy thought the knock was 
but part of a troubled dream; he waited a mo- 
ment, then, to make sure, limped over to the 
stairway and peered down into the room below. 
A candle stood on the pine table, and, at a chair 
near-by, knelt Janie McNeal, bowed in prayer. 
She had heard the knock, but not until the 


26 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


lonely prayer was finished would she rise. 
That was Janie’s way. 

A second knock, louder than the first, sounded, 
and with it the woman’s solemn “Amen.” 

“Be not so hasty, stranger,” she muttered, 
as she withdrew the bar; “learn to wait for your 
betters.” 

The door swung back, and into the dim light 
of the bare room stepped a tall man in Conti- 
nental dress. His hat was in his hand, and he 
bowed before Janie as if she were a queen. 
Andy drew back. No such stranger had ever 
visited them before, and the boy gazed fas- 
cinated. 

i ‘ Pardon me, my good woman, ’ ’ the rich voice 
said; “much as I dislike disturbing you, I fear 
I must crave a few hours’ rest and lodging, and 
the service of one to row me across the river ere 
break of day. I have been told that you have a 
son. ’ ’ 

Andy quivered. 

“A lodging, sir, is yours and welcome,” 
Janie replied, motioning the stranger toward a 
chair and closing the door after him. “I ever 


27 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


keep a bed in readiness these troubled times. 
We are loyal to the cause, and I would serve 
where I may. I have a son, sir, as you have 
heard, but, alas ! not one who can be of service. 
He is a cripple. However, rest ; you look 
sadly in need of it. I will hasten to a 
neighbor’s a mile away, and seek the service you 
desire.” 

“I regret to cause such trouble, but the need 
is urgent. I sympathize with you in your son’s 
affliction. It must be a sore grief to the lad to 
sit apart these stirring times when young blood 
runs hot, and the country calls so loudly.” 

Soon Janie was setting food ‘before the 
stranger— good brown bread and creamy milk. 
Andy saw the look of suffering on her face as 
she bustled about, and he understood. He crept 
back to bed heavy-hearted. Ruth was wrong; 
there was nothing for him to do. 

The hot hours dragged on. Toward morning 
Andy grew restless, and quietly arose and 
dressed. The feeling of bravery awakened 
within him, and a dim thought grew and as- 
sumed shape in his brain. He could row strong 


28 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


and well. Few knew of his accomplishment, for 
his life was lonely and the exercise and prac- 
tice had been one of his few diversions. 

He knew a secret path among the rocks, 
which led to the river, and at the end of the path 
was moored his tiny boat, the rough work of his 
patient hands. Only Ruth knew of his trea- 
sure ; often he and she had glided away from the 
hamlet to think their thoughts, or dream their 
young dreams. 

Now, if he could arouse the stranger before his 
mother had summoned another to do the service, 
he might share the joy of helping, in a small 
way, the great cause. 

“The need is urgent,” smiled the boy; “in 
that case a lame fellow might not be despised.” 

He recalled the, stranger’s face, and his cour- 
age grew. 

‘ ‘ Chances are so few ! ” he muttered ; “ I must 
take this one.” 

At the first rustling of the birds in the trees, 
Andy crept down-stairs. His mother’s room 
and the guest-room both opened from the living- 
room, but Janie’s door was closed, while the 


29 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


stranger ’s was ajar. Through it came the sound 
of low-spoken words. 

“Accept the thanks of thy servant for all 
bountiful mercies of the past. Guide his future 
steps. Bless our enemies, and make them just. 
Amen.” 

The boy bowed his head, instinctively. Surely 
he had nothing to fear from such a man. He 
went nearer and tapped lightly on the door. 
Light as was the touch, the stranger started. 

1 1 Come ! ’ ’ There was a welcome in the word. 
Andy stepped cautiously inside. 

“Good-morning, sir.” 

“The same to you, my lad.” The keen eyes 
softened as they fell upon the rude crutch. 
“How can I serve you?” 

“Sir, I have come to offer my services to 
you. I heard you tell my mother that you 
needed some one to row you across the river. 
I am a good rower. ’ ’ 

The man looked puzzled. “You are the 
widow’s son? Is not the task too great?” 

“My lameness does not hinder much. I use 
the crutch mainly to hasten my steps ; I can walk 
30 




THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


without it. I am very strong in other ways. I 
think I am just beginning to find out how strong 
I am, myself. None know the woods better than 
I. I can take you by a short cut to the river, 
and I have my own boat moored and ready. It 
will be a small matter to reach the opposite 
shore by sunrise if we start at once. ’ ’ Andy was 
panting -with excitement. “Pray, sir, let me do 
this; there are so few chances for such as I.” 

The listener smiled kindly. 

“You are just the guide I need,” he said, and 
Andy knew there was no flattery in the words. 
“I must leave it for you to thank your good 
mother for her hospitality. I have been ready 
for an hour. Lead on, my boy!” 

Silently they stole from the house. The birds 
twittered as they passed, for the tall man 
touched the lower boughs and disturbed the 
nestlings. 

“Bend low,” whispered Andy, “the way 
leads through small spaces.” 

On they went, sometimes creeping under the 
hanging rocks, always clinging to the shelter of 
trees and bushes. They both knew the danger 


31 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


that might lie near in the form of a British 
sentinel. 

“The path seems untrodden by foot of 
man, ’ ’ murmured the stranger, pausing to draw 
in a long breath. “You are a wonderful guide. ’ ’ 

“I think no one else knows the way / 7 Andy 
whispered, proudly; “an Indian showed it to 
me when I was a child. He was my good 
friend, he taught me also to row, and shoot with 
both arrow and gun. He said I should know 
Indian tricks because of my lameness. They 
might help .where strength failed. He showed 
me how to creep noiselessly and find paths. I 
have trails all over the woods. There is one 
that leads right among the Britishers ; and they 
never know. I do this for sport / 9 

The stranger looked sharply at the gliding 
form ahead. 

“Paths such as this all over the woods V 9 he 
repeated. “And have you kept this— this sport 
secret ?’ 9 

“That I have!” laughed Andy. “I tell you 
now because you are upon your country’s 
service. I trust you, and I thought perhaps it 


32 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


might help sometime.” The two moved to- 
ward for a moment in silence, then Andy laughed 
in a half-confused way. 

“A boy gets lonely at times,” he said; ‘Tie 
must do something to while away the— the years. 
I have practiced and made believe until I am a 
pretty good Indian. I make believe that I am 
guiding the great Washington. They do say 
he ever remembers a favor. I should love to 
serve him. Had I been like other boys—” the 
voice broke— “I would have been as near him 
as possible by this time ! ’ ’ 

The hand of the stranger was upon the youth’s 
shoulder. Andy turned in alarm. 

“You have a secret which may save your 
country much!” breathed the deep voice; 
“guard it with your life. But if one comes 
from Washington seeking your aid, do what- 
ever he asks, fearlessly. ’ 9 

“How would I know such an one?” gasped 
Andy. 

“That will I tell you later.” Again the for- 
ward tramp. 

“And you have passed, unnoticed, the 




> 


3 —Then Marched the Brave. 


33 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 

British line! ’Tis a joke almost beyond be- 
lief !” chuckled the stranger. “I should like to 
see my Lord Howe’s face were he to hear this.” 

‘ ‘ Oh ! be silent, sir ! ” cautioned the guide , 1 ‘ we 
come to an open space. ’ 9 

Once again beneath the heavy boughs, the boy 
said: 

“ 1 passed the line but yesterday. And I 
heard that which has troubled me, sorely, yet I 
could do nothing. But—” here Andy paused 
and turned sharply— 44 bend down. Should you 
know Washington were you to see him?” 

“Aye, lad.” The two heads were pressed 
close. 

“Would you bear a message, and try to find 
him?” 

“Aye.” 

“They are planning an attack. I could not 
hear when or where, for the men moved past. 
As they came back, and passed where I was 
hidden, I heard them say that they who are near 
Washington bad best be on watch, poison in 
the food made no such noise as a gun — but it 
would serve ! ’ 9 


34 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 

4 4 You heard that?” almost moaned the lis- 
tener. ‘ 4 My God ! could they plan such a cow- 
ardly thing?” 

“Aye, sir. I am thinking they can. I would 
warn the General if I could, but you may he 
luckier. The men said Lord Howe desired the 
death of every rebel. ’ ’ 

“May heaven forgive him!” The words fell 
sadly from the strong lips. 

“And now,” again Andy took the lead, “do 
not speak as we pass here. It is the spot where 
they shot our pastor’s hoy, only two days ago. 
I fear the place. A few rods beyond, we will 
again strike the thicket, and be under cover 
until we reach the river. 

The solemn quiet that precedes a hot summer 
dawn surrounded the man and boy. The red 
band broadened in the east. The birds, fear- 
ing neither friend nor foe, began to challenge 
the stillness with their glad notes, and so guide 
and follower passed the gruesome place where 
young Sam White gave up his untried life a 
few short days ago. The thicket gained, the 
two paused for breath. 


35 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


“We must not talk in the boat, sir.” They had 
reached the moored boat now. “Pray tell me 
how I am to know our General’s messenger.” 

“By this.” The stranger detached a charm 
from a hidden chain and held it in his palm so 
that the clearer light fell upon it. “I command 
you to learn its peculiarities well. There must 
he no blunder.” 

It was very quaint. Andy’s keen eye took in 
every detail. 

“I shall know it,” he sighed. And the 
stranger smiled and replaced it. “And you, 
sir?” he faltered, for the hour of parting came 
with a strange sadness; “may I not know your 
name? You have made me so proud and happy 
because you accepted my poor service.” 

“George Washington, and your true friend, 
Andy McNeal! We are both serving the same 
great cause. God keep us both !” 

The General clasped the boy’s trembling 
hand, and Andy looked through dim eyes into 
the face of his hero. The hero who for months 
past had been the imaginative comrade of 
lonely hours and dreamy play. 


36 


, - 





THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


“We shall meet again— comrade !” Washing- 
ton was smiling and the mist passed. “ Never 
fear death, lad, if you are doing your duty; it 
comes but once. Row swiftly. Day is break- 
ing. A messenger with a horse awaits me on 
the further shore. Head for Point of Cedars.” 

“ Good-by, sir; I shall never fear anything 
again— after this, I think. Good-by !” Andy 
was at the oars now. He handled them like the 
master that he was. The old Indian had taught 
well, and the apt pupil had been making ready 
against this day and chance. 

While Andy kept Point of Cedars in view, he 
saw, also, the noble figure, in the stern. The 
keen eyes kept smiling in kindly fashion, while 
the firm lips kept their accustomed silence. To 
Andy, the future was as rosy as the dawn, and 
he wondered that he had ever been depressed 
and afraid. 

‘ ‘ Death comes hut once ! ’ 9 kept ringing in his 
thoughts; “it shall find me doing my duty. 
God and Washington forever!” The song of 
the times had found a resting-place in Andy 
McNeaPs heart at last. 


39 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


Point of Cedars was safely reached. The 
general stepped upon the pebbly beach. Al- 
most at once, from among the bushes, appeared 
a young man in ragged Continental uniform, 
leading a large, white horse. 

Without a word Washington mounted, 
nodded his thanks to the messenger, and a final 
farewell to Andy, then he, followed by his newer 
guide, faded from sight among the forest-trees. 
Standing bareheaded and alone upon the shore, 
Andy watched until the last sound of the hoof- 
beats died away, then, with a sigh of hope and 
memory mingled, he retraced his way. 

Janie McNeal greeted her son at the door- 
way. 4 4 Andy ! ’ ’ she cried, 4 4 our guest is gone ! ’ ’ 
She quite forgot that Andy, presumably, knew 
nothing of the guest. 4 4 He desired a lad to row 
him across the river. I was going to neighbor 
Jones’s at early dawn to summon James. I 
should have gone last night, but I was sore tired. 
When I arose this morning, the stranger was 
gone. God forgive me ! 

4 4 The poor gentleman must have thought me 
a heedless body. I trust he will not think 


40 


THEN MARCHED THET BRAVE 


me in league with the Britishers ; there is 
much of that sort of thing going on.” Janie 
shook her head dolefully, not heeding Andy’s 
smile. 

4 ‘How do we know,” she went on,” but that 
the gentleman was on the great Washington’s 
business? He was an overgrand body himself, 
and had excellent manners.” 

“Mother!” the old hesitating tone crept back 
unconsciously into Andy’s voice as he faced his 
mother; “mother, I rowed the stranger across 
the river, he is— safely landed. It— was— it— 
was— Washington himself ! ’ ’ 

“Andy!” Janie flung up her hands, and 
nearly fell from the step; “think, lad, of your 
words. You look and talk clean daft.” 

‘ ‘ It— was— Washington ! ’ ’ The boy drew the 
words out with a delicious memory. 

“And— you— rowed— him— across? You— my 
—poor— lame lad! God have mercy upon me, 
and forgive me for my doubts!” 

“I can help a little, mother.” Andy drew 
near the quivering figure. “I know, mother, 
and I do not wonder, but there is a place for 


41 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 

every one in these days, and I’m going to be 
ready. ’ ’ 

Janie drew herself up, and put a trembling 
hand on the young shoulder. “Son!” she said, 
with a sudden but intense pride, “son, get ready, 
we go to Sam White’s burying, you and I. God 
be praised! blind as I was, He has opened my 
eyes to see my son at last ! ’ ’ This was a great 
deal for Janie McNeal to say, but it did its 
work. 


42 


CHAPTER III 


THE CROWNING OF ANDY McNEAL 

S AM WHITE’S burial was a very simple 
allair. In that time of need and anxiety 
men were off upon their country’s busi- 
ness. Few could stay to mourn. The pastor 
himself read the simple service in a voice of 
pride, broken by a father’s grief. He said that 
God would not let the sacrifice pass unheeded. 
Since Sam had heard the call, and then had been 
so suddenly taken away, another would be 
raised up to do his work ; another who, through 
Sam, might be touched more than in any other 
way. 

Andy, standing in the little group about the 
open grave, at this raised his eyes, and he found 
Ruth’s wide, tearless gaze fixed upon him. 
Andy smiled bravely back at her, for his heart 
was strong within him. 


43 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


After it was over and the few neighbors gone, 
Andy and Ruth remained to scatter flowers upon 
the young hero’s bed, and cover up the bare- 
ness of the place. 

“Ruth,” said Andy in a whisper, “I think 
my chance has come ! ’ ’ 

“Your chance, Andy?” 

1 1 Aye. I have been thinking that Sam ’s being 
taken has aroused me, and given me courage, 
just as your father said, and— and last night the 
chance began ! ’ 9 Then he told her of much that 
had occurred. Ruth knelt among the flowers, 
her young face glowing. 

“Oh! I shall have some one to watch,” she 
panted, ‘ 4 some one to help while he works. Oh ! 
Andy, you do not know how I long to help, and 
be part of this great time. I go on long walks, 
and I hear and see so much. Down on the 
Bowery I heard a group say the other day that 
General Washington was going to burn the 
town and order the people to flee. One man 
said, did he order such a thing, he, for one, 
would go over to the British; and, Andy, there 
was a great shout from the other men! I felt 


44 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 

my heart burn, for did our General order me 
to go, then would I go whither and where he or- 
dered ; nor would I question, so great is my trust 
in him. And did he burn all, even my home, yet 
would I gladly obey, for I would know he was 
doing wisely. So greatly do I honor him that 
I think, next to God, I trust our General !” 

The young face glowed and quivered, and 
Andy, with the spirit of hero-worship growing 
upon his recent experiences, panted in excite- 
ment as she spoke. 

“I, too, would follow, and never question/ ’ 
he said. “ Never fear, Ruth; what the General 
expects of me, that will I do. Not even death do 
I fear— it comes but once!” The boyish voice 
rang clear. 

Suddenly, Ruth started toward the house. 
“Wait,” she said, “I have something for you.” 
She was back in a moment, bearing Sam’s cap. 
“The time has come,” she faltered, and there 
were tears in her eyes. “I— I want to crown 
you, Andy McNeal.” She removed Andy’s 
rough cap and replaced it with Sam’s. 

“I’ll keep the old one,” she said, “and— and 


45 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


if yon should fail to do bravely, you can have 
your own!” Then she dashed away the tears. 
‘ ‘ Forgive me, Andy McNeal ! ’ ’ she sobbed ; ‘ ‘ you 
will never fail. There is hero blood in your 
body, I know, and it may be that your lameness 
will aid you in accomplishing tasks that a lusty 
lad could never attempt.’ ’ 

Andy raised his head proudly and the new 
crown set not badly on his boyish curls. 

“I must go,” he breathed. “I will come 
every day unless— you know, Ruth?” 

The girl nodded, and so they parted silently, 
Ruth pressing the old hat to her aching heart, 
and taking up the woman’s part in those 
troubling times ; the part of the watching, wait- 
ing one. 

The days following became filled with one 
longing for Andy. The longing for Washing- 
ton’s messenger. Unless he came soon, the boy 
feared that he would be too late. During his 
own recent explorations beyond the lines, he 
heard much that warned him that the British 
were planning something of grave importance. 

Andy had told his mother and Ruth nothing 


46 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


of Washington's anticipated messenger. They 
knew merely that Andy had ferried the great 
General across the river— was that not enough? 
Had they known for what the boy was eagerly 
watching, they could not have done their own 
daily tasks. 

“He has an eager, watchful air," Janie con- 
fided to Ruth. “I am thinking the lad expects 
the General to pass this way again. Lightning 
and such happenings do not strike twice in the 
same spot." 

Ruth smiled gently. “I do not think Andy 
walks as lame as he did," she mused, watching 
the boy disappearing down a woody path. 

“He is always on the go," Janie broke in. 
“He practices walking without his crutch more 
than I think wise; but one can do little with 
men-folk!" Janie tossed her head proudly. 
Andy was a growing delight to her. 

“It may do him good," Ruth added; “he 
looks stronger and — and gladder." 

“He has gone beyond me," the mother 
sighed. “I— I begin to know, lass, the happy 
feeling a mother has when her heart aches with 


47 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


loneliness and— and pride! What ails you, 
lass?” For Ruth had started and given a short 
cry. 

“Why— why— ” laughed the girl, “I am 
thinking my eyes are playing me false. I was 
watching Andy up the path, and I saw him as 
clear as I see you this minute— and then he was 
gone ! 9 ’ 

1 ‘ Do not get flighty, Ruth. ’ ’ Janie came close, 
however, and peered up the path. ‘ ‘You and 
Andy will drive me daft. The path is a straight, 
clean one; had Andy been on it, he would still 
be in sight. I’m thinking he turned before he 
came to the brook bed. You did not notice, but 
your thoughts kept agoing on.” 

“Perhaps,” nodded Ruth, but Janie knew she 
was unconvinced. 

On her way home soon after, Ruth began to 
ponder. Once clear of Janie’s observant eye, 
the girl turned back through the shrubbery, and 
ran to the spot where she had last seen Andy. 
All was as silent as a breathless summer day 
could make it. There was no side-path; no 
broken bushes. 


48 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


“He was here,” breathed the girl, “and he 
disappeared like a flash ! ’ ’ 

Then she knelt down and tried to trace foot- 
prints in the mossy earth. “Ah!” she smiled, 
for there was a crushed space at the edge of a 
brambly cluster of bushes. She quietly drew 
aside the branches, and a look of wonder grew 
in the bright eyes. So cunningly concealed, 
that even her native-bred keenness might never 
have espied it, lay a path, and among the bushes, 
Andy’s crutch! Should she follow? In the 
old days Ruth would not have paused. But 
these were not play-days; Andy might be upon 
grave business. Reverently she drew back, and 
replaced the disorder she had caused among 
the parted leaves. Suddenly a step startled 
her. She turned sharply. Up the path came a 
British soldier, whistling a gay tune and eyeing 
her boldly. 

More than once had Ruth encountered these 
most ungallant gentlemen, and she was alert 
at resenting any familiarity, but a fear grew in 
her heart now. Andy’s path must not be dis- 
covered! She must do her part. 

4— Then Marched the Brave. 49 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 

“ Good-day, my pretty lass!” The man 
halted. Under ordinary circumstances Ruth 
would have taken to her fleet feet at this, but 
Andy might return too soon, and emerge while 
yet the enemy could discover him. 

1 ‘Berrying?” grinned the fellow; “August is 
early for berries, is it not? The man was sus- 
picious, perhaps, and Ruth was on guard. 

“For some kinds,” she answered, lightly. 

“What kind are you hunting?” 

“One that you British do not know,” she re- 
plied; “it’s a kind that grows only in America 
and thrives upon freedom.” 

The soldier leered unpleasantly. “Come, I 
will help you hunt,” he cried; “if we find a 
berry I cannot name, you may ask what reward 
you choose, and if I succeed then will I take a 
kiss from your red lips, eh, my girl?” 

Ruth darted an angry look upward. If they 
hunted, the cane would be discovered, and yet if 
she refused— well, she must act quickly. 

“Is it a bargain?” 

“Yes;” the word came bravely from a 
trembling courage. 


50 



Then Marched the Brave. 

‘“GOOD DAY, MY PRETTY LASS.’” 
SI 





THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


The two knelt and began the search. Ruth 
pressed the bushes so as to cover Andy’s cane, 
but as her keen eyes fell upon the spot where 
it had been, to her surprise and joy, she saw 
that it was gone ! 

A cry broke from her, for, as she realized that 
that danger was past, she saw, near at hand, a 
plant so rare even to her woodland eyes, that it 
was precious. Thanks to her learned father, 
she knew its name, and the spray of waxen 
berries was her salvation. 

“See!” she cried, “you have brought good 
luck. ’Tis a rare find. Now I pray you, sir, 
name the berry I hold in my hand.” 

The man was searching the underbrush, and 
turned half angrily. “What have you?” he 
snarled. Ruth knew that Andy was near, but no 
breath was heard. 

“Name the berry, sir, or I claim my advan- 
tage!” Ruth stood upright with the spray in 
her hand. 

“ Wintergreen, ” ventured the fellow, wildly. 

“Wrong!” sneered Ruth, “and there is no 
second trial.” 


53 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


‘ ‘ How can you prove me wrong f” jeered the 
man, coming insolently close; 4 ‘who is to de- 
cide 1 ’ ’ 

“Your head officer, sir, ” flashed Ruth; “lead 
on, I will gladly leave it to him. After he has 
heard the tale from me— from me, mark— I will 
leave it to him. Perhaps there is one gentle- 
man in the king ’s troops. Lead on ! Why stand 
staring when your stake is so high f ” A dignity 
and fearlessness came to the angry girl. 

‘ ‘ Do you lead, or shall I ? ’ ’ she asked. 

“I— I beg your pardon !” cringed the fellow, 
“I will abide by your decision.’ ’ 

“Go, then!” cried Ruth, her temper breaking 
bounds, “and if you are a sample of my Lord 
Howe’s men, I am thinking our General will 
have but a short tussle. Go!” 

The man retraced his steps, sulkily. He had 
been foraging on his own account, and had un- 
earthed bigger game than he could manage. 

Ruth watched the man until he passed from 
sight. As she turned about she faced Andy 
sitting among the bushes. She jumped, then 
laughed nervously. 


54 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 

“How did you get your cane!” she asked. 

‘ 4 I was not six feet away. ’ ’ Andy ’s voice was 
strangely calm. “I hope you know, Ruth,” he 
faltered, 4 4 that had things turned out differently, 
I would have been with you. You know that!” 

4 4 Yes, Andy.” A flush came to the pale face. 
44 1 think I feared you would come more than 
anything else. But I do not trust that fellow. 
He will come back. I know he was suspicious. 
Choose another way— next time!” 

4 4 Aye, and I’ll stop up this trail. Good-by, 
Ruth. Hurry, I will wait until you are safe, 
and this passage made harmless.” 

For a few days longer Andy remained near 
home, not caring to run the risk of seeking the 
longer path of which he knew, while the 
Britisher’s suspicions might still be alert. Once 
or twice he had met the fellow on the public 
highway, and he feared to arouse any further 
cause for watchfulness. He had discovered, 
also, that the man had gone back to the spot 
where he had encountered Ruth, but Andy 
laughed, when he recalled how cunningly he had 
hidden the trail. But now the boy could wait 


55 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


no longer, lie must try to get near the lines and 
listen. 

Taking the longer way, he left his crutch hid- 
den inside a cave-like opening. He would 
never again trust the outside. Then in true 
Indian fashion he crept along through the rocky 
passage. He reached the other end and for an 
hour or more waited patiently, but only the 
passing of a lonely sentinel rewarded him, and 
he guessed that no news would come that way. 

He dared not emerge from his shelter, for the 
day was too bright and clear, the sentinel would 
surely spy him, and better no news than to give 
away the secret of the passage. Disappoint- 
edly he crept back, and at the other end put his 
hand cautiously forth to grasp his crutch. Then 
he became instantly aware that he was discov- 
ered, for his hand was grasped in a firm, un- 
yielding clutch. 

Andy’s heart stood still. He had no doubt 
but that Ruth’s annoyer had dogged his steps 
and had captured him. But there was little of 
the coward about Andy; he would face the 
worst. He pushed through the tangle of leaves, 

5 ^ 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


trying to free his hand, but the clasp was like 
iron. The captor was not the Britisher, but a 
man of quite another sort. He was young, 
handsome, splendidly formed. As he lay at full 
length upon the moss Andy thought he had 
never seen so tall a man. He wore velvet 
knee-breeches, long blue coat, and a wide- 
brimmed hat, which shielded a pair of friendly, 
laughing eyes. One glance and Andy lost all 
fear. 

4 4 Now that you have come from your hole, 
you young mole, good-morning to you, and 
where have you fared f ’ ’ The voice was ringing 
and full of cheer. 

“Good-morning, sir,” Andy made answer. 

“And where have you fared!” 

“That I cannot tell you, sir.” 

“You cannot tell me!” the man sighed, im- 
patiently. “Now, do you know, for a moment I 
fancied that you were just the lad who could 
guide me over your interesting island. What 
with all this excitement, a peaceful traveler has 
no show above-ground. I hoped you might lead 
me mole-fashion. ’ 1 


57 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


“I will gladly show you through the pass, sir, 
as far as the gate a mile or so below.’ ’ 

“As far as the gate! Always as far as 
something ! I want to go beyond — 4 as far !’ What 
care I for countersigns and passports. I want the 
freedom of the island, and a chance to study its 
rocks and flowers and very interesting weeds. 
Boys often know paths unknown to any one else 
—except Indians ! ’ ’ 

“But I am a lame boy much dependent upon 
a crutch. ’ ’ 

“You can dispense with it at times,” laughed 
the stranger. “For a good two hours you did 
without it to-day. It and I have been keeping 
company. I followed you at a distance, think- 
ing easily to overtake you, when piff ! you were 
gone, and I and the crutch— for you see I 
searched the hole— were alone!” 

For some moments Andy’s hand had been 
free, and now as he looked at the speaker he saw 
that he was holding in his open palm the charm 
which last he had beheld that glorious morning 
by the riverside. ’ ’ 

With a glad cry he sprang up. “I am Andy 
58 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 

McNeal!” lie said, and lie doffed Sam’s liat, 
which was his only martial possession. 

“And I— am the schoolmaster!” 

The two clasped hands. That was the begin- 
ning. Through the following days the master 
abode in Janie’s house. The good woman asked 
no questions. Her curiosity burned and burned, 
but wisdom held it in check. Enough that Andy 
was the companion of this mighty person. 
Enough that her humble roof sheltered him, 
and her able hands served him faithfully. It 
was wonderful, and— enough. Ruth, too, 
throbbed with excitement, but went her ways 
calmly as if it were a common enough thing for 
a splendid schoolmaster to suddenly undertake 
Andy’s neglected education, and pay for his 
lodging and board by instructing the hostess’s 
son. 

This was what was going on. Book in hand 
the two walked abroad quite openly. Some- 
times it would be rocks or flowers they were bent 
upon understanding, at other times the in- 
tricacies of the English language were the paths 
they followed. Occasionally Ruth would be 


59 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


asked to join in the walks and talks, but oftener 
they were alone. There were real lessons. 
Andy pondered upon them deeply, and his 
hungry mind fed upon the feast. Of course, so 
fine a master walking abroad with the lame boy, 
aroused the notice of the sentinels, but to their 
questions he answered so glibly, that there re- 
mained nothing to do but ask more. The game 
became tiresome. 

The tutor and his pupil kept within bounds, 
so there was no excuse for interference. But 
one day, quite lost in abstraction, the two passed 
beyond the gate at the end of the pass, and 
strolled down the road patroled by the British. 
Suddenly a loud “Halt!” made Andy jump. A 
look of surprise passed over the master’s face 
as a bayonet was thrust in front of him. 

The soldier was the one who had accosted 
Ruth ; Andy knew him at once. 

“Dear me! dear me!” cried the master, 
querulously, “after seeing us pass to and fro so 
often, one would not think it necessary to resort 
to such rudeness. Pray, good fellow, is not this 
his Majesty’s highway, and free to all?” 


60 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


“No,” grumbled the sentinel, lowering his 
weapon; “what’s your business?” 

“Schoolmaster.” 

“I do not mean that. I see you prodding 
around rocks and weeds with your noses in 
books, but I want to know what you mean on 
this road?” 

“I desire to take a walk on it. I have no 
weapon, I am a peaceful person. May I pass?” 

“You better turn back. This road is senti- 
neled all the way to camp. You’re too simple 
to go alone. 1 You are an American?” 

“Certainly. Born and bred in the colonies.” 

“A rebel?” 

“Sir!” 

“A rebel, I say?” 

“I am loyal to the heart’s core!” the master 
replied. “Come, Andy, the way back is doubt- 
less more pleasant for peaceful folk than the 
way before. Conjugate to live, Andy.” 

Once beyond sight and hearing of the foe, the 
master bared his head. “Loyal we are, and we 
know to whom! But how long it takes to dis- 
arm their doubts ! ’ ’ 

61 


CHAPTER IV 


THROUGH THE CAVE 

T HAT same night, as Andy lay sleeping, a 
strange sound startled him. In an instant 
he was out of bed, and limping toward 
the window. Again came the plaintive sound. 
It was some one mimicking a niglit-owl, and do- 
ing it very badly, as the boy’s true ear detected 
at once. 

Andy replied, in a much better imitation; 
then, from out the shrubbery beneath the win- 
dow, the master stepped forth in the moonlight, 
lie beckoned to the boy, and then moved back 
into the shadow of the trees. 

Always, with Andy, there was the struggle 
between the quick, alert mind and will, and the 
weaker body. However, with trembling fingers, 
he dressed as rapidly as possible, gladly remem- 
bering that he could reach the ground by the 


62 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


vine, thus saving time, and making sure that his 
mother would not be disturbed. 

In a few moments he was ready. He dropped 
his crutch cautiously from the window, and 
began to descend himself. The man among the 
shadows did not move, though his expect- 
ant eyes were on the watch. Andy, keeping 
well in the shelter of the shade, reached his 
friend. 

“That fellow we met to-day was prowling 
about the house an hour ago,” whispered the 
master; “he looked boldly into my window. I 
was awake and saw his features distinctly, 
though I fancy he thought me unconscious. I 
saw him leave by the stream path. He thinks me 
safe for to-night, but they are suspicious, those 
Britishers, and you and I must get through the 
passage to their lines to-night. I believe some- 
thing is afoot, and they do not wish to run any 
chances. Lead on, Andy McNeal; before break 
of day I must know all, all that is possible, and 
be away.” 

“Follow!” said Andy, trembling with excite- 
ment, but losing no time. Down upon hands 
63 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


and knees they went, and no creatures of the 
wood and night could have been more silent. 

4 ‘All’s well!” came from a far-off sentry; 
and the man and hoy breathed quicker. A mo- 
ment of rest at the opening of the cave-like path 
where Andy and the master had first met, then 
into the narrow gloom toward the danger 
line. 

“The way is narrow,” whispered Andy, “but 
it leads out just behind the British tents.” 

“Ah! for Vulcan’s hammer!” laughed the 
master softly; “I’d hew me a broader path, 
Andy. The width of me suffers sorely for the 
cause.” Andy smiled in the darkness. The 
mirth in the master’s voice gave courage. 

“It is broader further on,” encouraged the 
guide. 

“God be praised for that!” groaned the man 
as he came in contact again with the rocks. 

The crutch had been left at the entrance, well 
hidden. Hands and knees were all that were 
needed on that journey. Once a slimy creature 
crawled across the master’s hand, and he ut- 
tered an exclamation. 


64 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


“Don’t do that again!” breathed Andy, in 
alarm. 

The minutes seemed endless, and the progress 
very slow. The darkness was so intense that it 
was something of a shock to the master when 
he suddenly became aware that he could see the 
outline of his guide’s body. There was a small 
opening ahead, and a gleam of moonlight shot 
in! Neither spoke. If the British sentry 
was beyond there was every need of stillness 
now. 

“I hear steps!” said Andy in a breath; 
‘ ‘ listen ! ” 

The duller ear of the master heard no sound 
for a moment, then slowly and alarmingly near, 
he did catch the sound of the measured tread of 
a soldier, and, from the opposite direction evi- 
dently, a second man. Near the opening the 
two met. 

1 ‘ Fine night, Martin ; everything quiet ? ’ ’ 

“Quiet? Lord, yes! If something does not 
happen soon, I swear I’ll cut and run. It 
wouldn’t take a great deal to make me quit. 
The pluck of the rebels rather tickles me. I’ve 

5 — Then Marched the Brave. 63 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


half a mind to toss my luck among them, and 
stand or fall with the colonies. ” 

“Better change your mind,” laughed the 
other; “something’s going to happen and that 
pretty quick.” 

“Is that hearsay, Norton, or authentic? I’ve 
just come into camp. I’ve been having a picnic 
over on Long Island— raiding farms and doing 
a lot of dirty work that sickens me. Clean fight- 
ing is what I set out to do, and gad! this kind 
of thing turns a fellow’s stomach. We’ve been 
fed on the talk that these rebels are cowards. 
Cowards, bah! And as for that big, silent 
general of theirs, he— he rather appeals to 
me!” 

“Don’t be white-livered, Martin!” sneered 
Norton. “You may get some cold steel from 
your own countrymen for uttering such senti- 
ments. My information is all right, it comes 
from his lordship himself. Washington is too 
dangerous to leave longer alone; should he find 
out— what was that?” 

The master, less a child of the woods than 
Andy, in his excitement had tried to creep 


66 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


closer, and the quick ear of the sentinel had 
noticed the sound. 

“It is this accursed spot again !” muttered 
Norton; “twice lately I could have sworn I 
heard breathing among the bushes. I Ve beaten 
every inch of ground, and not a living creature 
have I found. I’m not squirmish, and a rebel 
now and then don’t count, hut— well, you know 
I brought that parson’s cub down a bit further 
back. Lord ! how the fellow strutted, and when 
I called to him he started like a stuck pig. I 
cannot forget the look on his face as— as I fired. 

“Pm agreeing with you, Martin, clean fight- 
ing or nothing. I’m not up to this slaughtering 
of infants myself. I half expect to see that 
baby playing in the moonlight every time a leaf 
rustles at night.” The man laughed uneasily. 
“Once I fancied I saw a face— a pale boy-face 
—shining in the bushes. Lord, it gave me a 
turn ! ’ ’ 

“Could there be a secret passage?” asked 
Martin in a low voice. “A fellow named Godkin 
told me an hour ago that he had his eye on a 
lame chap and a gawk of a schoolmaster who 
67 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 

were always skulking around close to the 
ground. He says the boy lives hereabouts and 
knows the woods like a snake/ ’ 

“No fool rebel could keep such a secret from 
me. Godkin likes to talk and swagger. He 
feels his oats. Come, just to pass the time, let’s 
beat the bushes. ’ ’ 

“Back out!” breathed Andy. There was no 
time to be lost. But the backward movement 
was most painfully slow. The men tramping in 
the bushes, feeling the thing but child-play, 
laughed and talked loudly. 

“How many men has the old fox?” asked 
Martin, giving a cut to the bushes with his gun. 

‘ 1 Twelve thousand, though he gives out many 
more.” 

“He’s got grit,” rejoined Martin, “with my 
lord gripping his throat at close quarters with 
double that number at his heels, to stand still 
and calm as— as this rock ! Gad, I nearly broke 
my gun! This land produces more rocks than 
anything else. I heard Washington is planning 
to get on Long Island again.” 

“He’ll never get there. My Lord Howe— what 


68 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


in thunder !” Norton had slipped and fallen, 
and as he lay so, his face was on a level with the 
opening in the rocks! 

i i Come here!” he gasped. “Got a light? 
There ’s a hole here. * ’ 

Martin struck a light and peered in. .As he did 
so Andy’s white, horrified face gleamed forth 
from the shadow. Without a word the head 
was withdrawn, and both Andy and the master 
knew that the man, or both men, would follow 
at once. 

“They are big!” moaned Andy, “and they 
do not know the way as we do. Oh, hurry ! ’ ’ 

The master feared that the sentinel would fire 
into the cave, but as the moment passed, and 
he did not, he took heart, and crept backward 
as fast as he could. Then came the sure sound 
of the chase. One or both had entered the 
passage ! They had this advantage ; they could 
come straight on, while the pursued were going 
backward, the master, being the bulkier and 
more uncertain, barring Andy’s smaller body. 

“For our lives!” almost sobbed the boy. 

The oncoming foe once or twice struck a 
69 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


light, but the curving of the passage hid the 
prey. However, the sound ahead was enough to 
guide the Britishers. Then suddenly the mas- 
ter became wedged, and the leader of the pur- 
suers came so near that Andy fancied he felt 
his breath. 

“I don’t hear the little scamp!” muttered 
Norton; “perhaps the passage divides. Wait 
until I strike a light.” In that instant the mas- 
ter extricated himself, and with desperate haste 
the two backed along, while the light flickered, 
and then went out, much to the dismay of the 
foe. 

“Hurry!” commanded Norton; “I hear him 
again; don’t fool* with the light!” The head 
man and Andy were not a yard apart now, 
and the narrowest of the passage was yet to 
come! 

The master realized this, too. He knew if he 
were to get wedged again all would be over, and 
Andy was the one nearest the enemy! He 
paused and Andy came in violent contact with 
him. The leading Britisher was upon them! 
The form behind Andy darted forth an arm of 


70 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


steely muscle, and a terrific blow fell sure and 
sudden on the face of the British sentinel ! 

“My God!” screamed the fellow, and “The 
devil ! ’ ’ echoed from his companion. 

“Now!” whispered the master, “this is our 
last fling!” 

It was over at last. The entrance was gained. 
Taking no time to consider how spent Andy 
was, the master began to pile rocks at the open- 
ing. It took not overlong, for the mouth of the 
cave was small. 

“So!” almost laughed the master in his re- 
lief, “before my British friend gets his senses 
hack, the way is barred. Good! Here, Andy, 
lad, give me your hand. To the house, and to 
bed. Ere daybreak I must be well away from 
here. They are planning an attack at once, and 
I know where I can get the plans, methinks. 
That fellow saw you, and there is no further 
chance for me here.” 

“You— you are going!” Andy, leaning on the 
master and his crutch, was making good head- 
way. “The man saw only me; surely you can 
stay in safety.” 


7 1 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


“Andy, do you think the fellow thought you 
dealt that blow?’’ The clear laugh was stifled. 
“No; we are marked men. But I am on the 
right course now. Washington shall soon have 
the papers he needs. ’ ’ 

“Where do you go?” whispered Andy; “can 
I not be of use?” 

“Not now, my friend, and if we never meet 
again, Andy McNeal, remember whom we have 
both served well, and that you have made 
brighter for me many a weary hour. I care not 
what the thoughtless may think of me, but I 
would have you know that what the future holds 
of seeming dishonor and shame, I assumed in 
truest loyalty. 

“From what I am to do, others shrank. I 
saw but one way, though, God knows, my heart 
was wrung. I reserve nothing. Even what 
seems my honor I give to my country and 
Washington !” 

The master and Andy stood still in the 
moonlight, and the two young faces gleamed 
white and troubled. “Good-night and farewell. 
Thank your mother. ’ ’ He was gone. 


72 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


Andy painfully and slowly climbed the stairs 
and entered his bedroom. 

His heart was very heavy. He had seemed 
on the verge of doing a great service, and be- 
hold, the chance had fled. 


73 


CHAPTER V 


A SUSPICION 

S EPTEMBER dragged wretchedly. There 
was no need of stealing among the bushes 
for news or amusement. 

Indeed, Andy wisely concluded that to keep 
to the open, innocent ways would be the only 
possible thing that could help the absent master. 

He missed the lessons and the exciting com- 
radeship, too; the contrast was painful. Janie 
saw, but questioned not. It was all beyond her. 
Ruth was the only relief. 

“Fear not, Andy,” she would say. “You 
must bide your time, and wait patiently. ’Tis 
what Washington is doing. Copy your General 
in this, as well as other things. One may serve 
in that way as well as in others. You should 
hear the tales Hans Brickman tells of the doings 
in the patriot camp. He carries eggs and honey, 
you know. 


74 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


4 4 He says that Washington isn’t just fighting 
or holding in check the king’s men; but his own 
troops are acting shamefully— threatening to 
desert, and begging for money; complaining all 
day long. Oh ! if I were a soldier I would show 
them!” The girl flung her strong young arms 
above her head, and brought down her clenched 
fists in a laughably vehement way. 

4 4 And there sits that great General, never 
flinching, but writing to Congress to pay the 
babies ; and calming the tyrants with one 
breath, and shaming them into obedience with 
the next. 

4 4 Hans says he dashes at them sometimes with 
his sword, and slaps the raw recruits into shape, 
telling them that if they run when he orders 
them to advance, he’ll shoot them himself. 
There’s a man for you!” 

4 4 Indeed there is a man,” nodded Andy, and 
his face grew brighter. 4 4 And I should cry 
shame to myself because I am so impatient of 
this lameness which holds me back.” 

4 4 Holds you back ! Andy McNeal, that is rank 
ingratitude. You’ve been up to some mighty 


75 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


doings, that I know, or you would not be hunger- 
ing for more glory. Oh, I can see a bit ahead 
of my nose. Time was when you hung around, 
not knowing glory because it had not come your 
way. You’ve tasted it, Andy, and your thirst 
grows. I know a thing or two. You’re getting 
strong, too, Andy; you’re an inch taller than I. 
Father mentioned the fact this very morning. 
You’re taking on airs, but remember, I knew 
you when you were less a man. Have a care ; a 
woman has a tongue. I ’ll be calling you down if 
you carry things with too high a hand. ’ ’ 

Andy laughed and stood straighter. Then, 
very quietly : 

‘ ‘ Andy, what was the master’s name?” 

“Ruth, I do not know.” 

“Do not, or will not tell?” 

“I do not know.” 

“Can you tell me why he stayed here?” 

“I cannot tell you, Ruth. Why do you ask?” 
The girl paused and dropped her clear eyes. 

“They do say, the whisper has reached my 
father, that he was a spy, and— and a dangerous 
one ! ’ ’ 


76 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


‘ ‘ They lie ! ’ ’ said Andy, hotly ; 4 4 he, a spy ! ’ ’ 
Then the boyish voice fell. The last, sad talk 
under the stars came clearly back, and in the 
shock of the memory the boy trembled. 

Ruth watched him closely. “I’m not over- 
curious, ’ ’ she faltered, “but I fear for you. If 
he— if he were a spy you were seen with him far 
too often for your good. Father even feared for 
me.” 

“Ruth” (Andy’s voice had a new tone), “I 
can believe no dishonor of the master, and I am 
proud that I walked with him and was his 
friend !” 

“Aye” (Ruth looked doubtful), “but a spy is 
not a good thing, Andy, no matter what shape 
it takes.” 

Old, rigid training held them both, hut Andy 
must defend his friend, though the honest soul 
of Ruth shone from her eyes, and challenged 
him. 

“It is as a thing is used,” he began, lamely, 
but seeing his way dimly. 

“Father does not preach that,” Ruth broke 
in. 


77 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


4 ‘No; nor would I preach it,” sighed Andy. 

“But you would act it?” Ruth flashed. 

“I do— not know. I cannot think the master 
was aught but honest. If he were— were— ” 
Andy could not use the hard word— “if he were 
finding things out, you may be sure, Ruth, it 
was not for his own uplifting. If he gave what 
other men would call— would call their honor— 
it was because he held not even that from his 
country. I can— see— how— that could— be!” 

Ruth raised her eyes. “Could you, Andy?” 
she said. 

“Yes. I could give it as I could my life. I 
would take no recompense, I would just give, 
and do anything. Ruth, suppose you knew a 
truth about— about— well, about me; a truth 
that, if it were known, would be the death of 
me. Would you tell, or— or would you save 
me?” 

It was a rigid moment for the stern little 
maid. Her eyes fell, then were raised again. 

“I— do— not— know,” she panted, “but a lie 
is a lie, and I should expect to be punished.” 

“So should I for any dishonorable thing,” 


78 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


agreed Andy. “That is just it, but it would be 
my willingness to do it, and then to suffer, that 
makes the difference.” 

The two were standing near the end of the 
Pass at a small gate, and as Andy ceased speak- 
ing a sound 'smote their ears that turned them 
pale. It was the sound of many horsemen gal- 
loping wildly onward. 

“The king’s men landed at Kip’s Bay this 
morning,” gasped Andy, clutching the gate, 
“and they do say that Douglass’s men are not 
strong enough to defend the point.” 

It was Putnam’s five brigades; the boy and 
girl only knew they were patriot troops. They 
had been ordered by Washington to make for 
Manhattanville before retreat was cut off. 

Young Aaron Burr was acting as guide. The 
master had once pointed him out to Andy, and 
the boy remembered the face well. Boldly and 
fearlessly he was riding, and Andy’s voice broke 
into a cheer as he recognized the noble face. The 
leaders halted. There were several roads ahead ; 
which was safest and quickest! Burr ventured a 
question. 


79 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 

“Which way leads most directly to Manhat- 
tanville?” he said. 

“Keep close to the river, and make for Kings- 
bridge, Colonel,” Andy answered. “That road 
is not so carefully watched; it is rougher but 
safer.” 

Burr gave him a smile, then galloped ahead. 
The last weary stragglers were barely out of 
sight, when again the sound of on-coming horse- 
men broke the stillness. 

4 4 These are king ’s men ! ’ ’ groaned Ruth, who 
had stood rigidly silent until now. “Ah ! Andy, 
and the others so little in advance !” 

Constantly blowing their bugles and shouting 
derisively after the fleeing patriots, my Lord 
Howe’s men advanced. 

“ ’Tis a rare fox-hunt!” laughed one. 

“But the fox and his mates are out of sight, 
my lord,” cried another. 

“For the moment. The ways divide a few 
rods beyond. Did the rebels pass this way?” 
asked an officer noticing Andy and Ruth. 

“Yes, sir!” answered Ruth, promptly, and 
for a moment Andy sickened at what he feared 


8o 



Then Marched the Brave. 

"BURR VENTURED A QUESTION.’ 
Si 


6 


» 




; 

> 

;• 

x 







* 






















THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


she was about to do. It was too late, though, for 
him to interfere. 

4 4 Which road did they take ? ’ ’ 

The instant’s pause seemed an eternity to 
Andy. Then calmly and with clear, uplifted 
eyes : 

4 4 The main road, sir, it being the safer and 
shorter ! ’ ’ Andy felt a moment’s dizziness. Then 
a rough voice startled him : 

44 I know that boy, my lord; he was the one 
in the secret passage, about which I told you. 
I shall not soon forget him.” 

44 I thought you said your companion in the 
cave was dealt a stunning blow ; surely this lad 
could have done no such thing,” answered the 
Captain. 

44 I could swear to him, your lordship, though I 
saw him but for a moment as Martin went down, 
and the light went out. Hi! there, Martin, 
come here,” he called. A man galloped up, a 
man with a dark bruise upon his forehead and 
eye. 

4 4 Martin, do you know that boy?” Martin 
looked, and in the clear light he saw and knew 
83 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


Andy at once ; but something staggered him, and 
he stammered and shook. 

‘ ‘Did you strike this soldier ?” asked the Cap- 
tain impatiently of Andy. 

1 ‘No, sir ! ’ ’ The words came sharply. 

“You do not recognize him?” asked the officer 
of Martin. 

“He— is— the— same!” Martin blurted. “We 
are losing time, my lord.” 

“There is no way to settle the thing here; we 
are losing time, and your story of that night in 
the cave is too important to overlook, Norton. 
If this is the boy we must deal with him later. 
The young scamp probably knows the roads 
well. Lead on, you rascal, but if you play any 
tricks and mislead us, my men shall pin you 
to a tree.” 

Ruth gave one despairing cry: 

“He is lame,” she panted. “For shame! 
How can he lead a mounted troop?” 

“We’ll go slowly. The game’s nearly up, 
my girl,” laughed Norton, “and a prick of 
the bayonet”— he suited the word with an 
action, and prodded Andy on the arm— “will 


84 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


hurry the lamest patriot. Lead on, cave- 
crawler !” 

Andy gave one look at Ruth. A look of 
bravery, appreciation, and mute thanks for her 
part of the work. 

“It’s all right, Ruth,” he called back. “Tell 
mother I’ll lead them straight enough and be 
home in an hour. Good-by.” 

By a winding way leading from the main 
road they went ; through Apthorpe ’s place they 
cantered at their ease, and so came to the high- 
way a mile beyond. 

4 4 There may be a shorter cut, my lord, ’ ’ sug- 
gested Norton; then he paused. 4 4 Does your 
lordship observe there are no marks on the road 
that bespeak the recent passing of a regiment? 
This should mean the young rebel’s death!” 

4 4 He’s a spy in the old fox’s hire!” shouted 
another. 

4 4 String him up, along with the schoolmaster 
down at the Beekman place to-morrow morn- 
ing!” roared a third. All was wild commotion 
in a moment. But in that moment Andy took his 
chances and made for the thicket, and the hidden 


85 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 

path over which he and Washington went that 
day that now seemed so long ago. A man 
leaned from a horse and tried to clutch him, lost 
his balance and tumbled to the ground. Confu- 
sion covered Andy’s dash. 

“He’s gone!” yelled the man who had fallen. 

“Which way?” shouted several in response. 

Which way ? Aye, that was the query. Which 
way! 

Andy made for the dry bed of the stream. No 
rustling leaves must betray him. Not in flight 
was his safety now, but in silent hiding until 
darkness should come. Down into the muddy 
pool of the once rushing brook, rolled the boy. 
In the distance he heard : 

“No trail here, my lord!” and he smiled 
grimly. 

“Well, a lost lame rebel is of less account than 
the regiments ahead,” shouted the Captain. 
“Bad luck to the young devil. Cut cross 
country and try the river road ! ’ ’ 

“They have an hour to the good!” thought 
Andy, as he remembered the weary patriots and 
young Aaron Burr. Soon all was quiet, and 


86 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


with the palpitating silence a new thought grew 
in Andy’s brain. 4 4 Better string him up to- 
morrow with the schoolmaster!” Whom did 
they mean ! 

“Schoolmaster! Spy!” The two words 
struck dully on the aching brain. Suppose! 
Andy sat up and gazed wildly into the dense 
underbrush. “Could it be?” But no; the idea 
was too horrible. 

The long shadows began to creep among the 
rocks they loved so well. Still Andy sat staring 
into the awful possibility that the words con- 
jured up. 

“Schoolmaster! Spy!” He could stand it 
no longer. Cautiously he crept up the bank. 
Through all the excitement he had clung to his 
crutch. It must serve him well now. He set out 
determinedly toward the highway. Come what 
might, he must reach the Beekman place as soon 
as possible, and he hoped that the road was safe, 
owing to interest being centered elsewhere. In 
this hope he was right. Below and above him, 
excitement ran rife, but the highway seemed to 
belong to him alone. 


87 


CHAPTER VI 

THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 

A TERRIBLE storm was coming up, after 
the sultry day. Andy’s whole being cen- 
tered upon the thought that he must reach 
the Beekman Place; and the coming storm 
might delay him. Only so far did it affect him. 
He felt no hunger; it troubled him a little that 
his mother and Ruth would worry about him, 
but nothing mattered so much as the solving of 
the doubt that was causing his heart and brain 
to throb. 

Strangely enough, his lameness decreased as 
his excitement waxed greater, or it seemed to, 
and he considered it less. The birds stopped 
twittering their vesper songs, and huddled fear- 
fully in their shelters. A peal of thunder was 
followed quickly by another. The rocks took 
up the echo and prolonged the sound. Between 


88 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


the flashes of lightning, the darkness could al- 
most be felt, so tangible and dense it seemed. 
Once Andy fell and struck his head. The blow 
made him giddy, but the rain dashing in his 
face steadied him, and he plodded on. Then a 
glare in the distance attracted him. It was in 
the direction toward which he was going. 

‘ ‘ A fire ! ’ ’ he muttered. ‘ ‘ All the more reason 
for hoping they will not notice me.” The town 
might burn, what matter, if only the way were 
free to the Beekman place. 

It was still dark when he reached his destina- 
tion, worn and haggard. Over toward the green- 
house people were stirring about, and Andy 
rightly guessed that the prisoner, whoever he 
might be, was there. No luckier place could 
have been chosen, so far as Andy was concerned. 
It was surrounded by shrubbery through which 
he could creep right up to the building, provid- 
ing, of course, that the sentinels did not see him. 
But the sentinels were relaxing their watch. 
The hours of the troublesome spy were nearly 
ended, and there could be little danger of any 
further trouble on his account. 


89 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


Andy crept along, keeping to the bushes. The 
storm was nearly over, and no lightning could 
betray his motions now. 

Once the glass house was reached, Andy 
looked eagerly in. There was a pile of rubbish 
in one corner, and a man was sitting upon a 
rude bench near it ; between him and Andy, how- 
ever, were two men with their backs to the boy, 
and they quite hid the face of the man upon 
the bench. The two were listening, and the 
third man was speaking. Andy was too far 
away to hear, but, gaining courage, he crept 
around to the other side of the house, and so 
came close to the group within. Something in 
the attitude of the man upon the bench had 
caused the hoy’s heart to leap madly, then al- 
most stop. He raised his eyes slowly— one look 
was enough ! 

Sorrow and ill-treatment had done their work, 
but the dear face was the same ! Dauntless, un- 
dying courage shone upon the uplifted face. 

It was the master! The errand, whatever it 
had been, was over. Success or failure? Andy 
could not tell from the calm features. Spy or 


90 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


hero! What mattered! There sat the beloved 
friend, deserted and forlorn— still unconquered 
though the fetters bound him close. 

“ I would send, if your kindness will permit, 
these letters. They will make lighter the sor- 
row of them I love.” 

Andy bowed his head and clutched at his 
throat to stifle the rising cry. A broken pane 
of glass near-by permitted him to hear clearly 
every word. 

One man on guard had a low, brutal face, 
the other, Andy noticed, had a more humane 
look. 

“Have you the letters written !” asked the 
coarse fellow. 

“I have.’’ The master drew them from his 
breast and handed them to the speaker. 

“One is to Washington, ” laughed the man. 
‘ ‘ Gad, you must take us for raw recruits. ’ ’ 

“I shall be beyond harming you soon. That 
letter refers to personal matters, I swear.” 
There was superb dignity in the voice. “I 
would have his excellency know that I regret 
nothing. I would do all over again, did the 


91 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


need arise. Washington would see that my 
comrades understand that.” 

The man with the letters gave vent to a brutal 
oath. Then the quieter man spoke for the 
first. 

“If we read the letters and find them harm- 
less, I am for forwarding them. To whom are 
the others addressed!” 

“One to my family, the other— to the woman 
I was to have married!” The master, for the 
first time, bowed his head, as if his burden were 
too heavy. 

“I think we may carry out your request if 
the contents are what you imply. ’ ’ 

“And make a hero of this spy!” snarled the 
rougher man. i i Every word may have a double 
meaning, Colonel. We have the papers he so 
carefully hid, but these letters may contain the 
same information, slyly concealed.” He tore 
the letters across twice, and flung the pieces on 
the floor. “Death and oblivion to all rebel 
spies ! ” he hissed. 

The master never flinched, but his pale face 
grew paler. “Is there anything else we can do 


92 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


for you?” asked the milder voice, ‘ 1 something 
safer than forwarding letters ? ’ ’ 

“I should like to have the right generally 
granted a dying man, of seeing a minister. One 
lives a few miles above here. I am sure he 
would come.” 

4 ‘ And hear what you dare not write, * ’ sneered 
the torturer. 4 4 You are not the sort to need a 
death-bed scene ; besides, there isn ’t going to be 
any death-bed. I dare say the parson would be 
glad enough to carry your so-called confession 
to Washington. Bah! you are crude in your 
last moments. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Come, ” impatiently spoke the fellow’s com- 
panion, “I have no stomach for your jests and 
brutality.” Then, turning to the master, he 
said: “We will leave you for a few hours. It 
seems the only thing we can do for you. Try 
to rest.” 

Down the greenhouse the two went. The 
master was alone ! He bowed his splendid 
head, and perhaps tasted, for the first time, the 
dregs of desolation. 

Andy, lying low among the bushes, saw that 


93 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


the master’s feet were bound. The sight wrung 
the boy’s soul. Perhaps he had wildly hoped 
that escape were possible, but one glance showed 
him that the fetters were cruelly strong. What 
could he do! Near and far he heard the mea- 
sured tread of sentinels at their posts. He won- 
dered that he had ever gained his present posi- 
tion unnoticed. It was doubtful now that he 
could make his own escape, for a gray dawn was 
breaking in the east. But the thought of his 
own danger troubled the boy little. He was 
thinking of a peculiar whirring sound that he 
and the master had once practiced together. A 
sound like an insect. “ ’Twould be a good sig- 
nal,” the teacher had said. Would he remem- 
ber it! 

Andy pressed close to the broken glass, and 
chirruped distinctly. The master started and 
raised his eyes. Was he dreaming! Again 
Andy ventured. Then a smile flitted across the 
master’s face. 

“Andy!” he breathed. 

‘ ‘ Here, close to you ! ’ ’ 

Slowly, without a suspicious start, the man 


94 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


turned in the boy ’s direction ; and the two brave 
comrades smiled at each other over the gulf of 
pain and grief. 

“I will try to sleep !” This aloud, to regale 
the ear of any possible listener other than 
Andy. With difficulty the master stretched, as 
best he could, his fettered limbs upon the floor, 
taking heed to lie as close to Andy as possible. 

Silence. Then the man tossed and talked 
aloud in troubled fashion. 

Andy, meantime, with a daring that might 
risk all, put his hand in the broken pane and 
drew the bits of paper of the torn letters to him. 

“Tell Washington,’ ’ moaned the voice of the 
master in a half sleepy whisper, “I regret 
nothing. Am proud to die and to have given 
all ” 

1 ‘ I have the letters ! ’ 9 breathed Andy. “ If I 
live Washington shall have them and know all.” 

“Thank God!” came from the man upon the 
floor. “You are a true friend, Andy McNeal.” 

“Good-by,” groaned Andy. “Some one is 
coming!” The cold perspiration covered the 
boy’s body, for steps were drawing near. 


95 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


There could hardly be any one outside, ’ ’ said 
a loud, rough voice. “ Still we must take no 
chances. The poor devil has reason to toss in 
his sleep and talk. I doubt if he were doing 
anything else.” 

The need was desperate. Andy crawled like 
a snake through the grasses. Escape seemed 
impossible. He passed the two searchers in the 
friendly gloom, and breathed freer. This was 
a lucky move, for the two men examined thor- 
oughly the spot where Andy had been. They 
discovered the broken glass, and one remarked 
that the weeds had been crushed. 

“Some animal has been prowling about, there 
are no footprints,” said the other. 

Andy’s Indian training was serving him well. 
In a few minutes the two passed on. “We’ll 
walk around the place. Daybreak is near. The 
dangerous spy’s time is short.” 

Andy made the most of that time. Stealing 
cautiously in and out of the shrubbery, he 
worked his way out of sight of the greenhouse. 
The chill of the morning made him shiver. 
How many hours he had passed without food 

9 6 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


or drink he did not consider; but his heart 
seemed dead within him. 

Painfully he came at last to the shelter of the 
woods. Then he sat down upon a fallen tree, 
clutching the scraps of paper against his throb- 
bing breast. In imagination he seemed to see 
the master being led forth to die. See ! the east 
was rosy. Now, even now, the brave soul was 
marching on undaunted and undismayed. Andy 
could see nothing in the brilliancy of that lovely 
morning light, but the uplifted face of the man 
he loved. A pride and joy came to the boy. 
That hero was his friend! The world might 
call him a spy— but he, Andy McNeal, knew that 
he had given all for the country’s cause, and re- 
gretted nothing, even in the face of a dishonored 
death. 

“And Washington shall know!” breathed 
Andy. “As soon as I can reach headquarters, 
the General shall have these!” Fiercely he 
pressed the papers. Then he arose. He was 
stiff and deadly weary. 

“I will go to Ruth!” he sighed. “I must 
have food and rest. I dare not go to mother. 

7 — Then Marched the Brave. ^ gy 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


My plight is too sad. I will save her the sight.” 
Bedraggled and blood-stained— for the fall of 
the night before had left its mark— Andy went 
on, looking, as indeed he was, a soldier of the 
cause. 


98 


CHAPTER VII 


ANDY HEARS A STRANGE TALE 

A NDY made but poor time to the minister’s 
house. It was well on toward noon 
when the shouts of the children at play 
cheered his heart. He had been obliged to rest 
many times, and once he had fallen asleep and 
slept longer than he knew. 

As he drew near the cottage he saw Ruth 
kneeling by Sam’s grave. It was one of the 
girl’s daily duties of love to bring fresh flowers 
and cover the mound with the bloom. Glad 
enough was Andy to see her alone, and in this 
quiet spot. He went more rapidly ; the sight of 
Ruth gave him new strength. He had no inten- 
tion of frightening her, he made no attempt to 
walk quietly, but indeed a look at his haggard 
face would have caused alarm in any case. 

‘ 6 Ruth!” The girl looked up, stared, but 


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made no cry. She rubbed her eyes feebly as if 
awakening from sleep, then she grew deadly 
pale. 

‘ ‘Andy McNeal!” she whispered. “Whatever 
has happened !” 

4 * I will tell you. ’ ’ He sank down wearily, and 
took the cap from his head. 

“My heart has been filled with horror,” Ruth 
went on, giving Andy time to catch his breath. 
“I dared not tell any one what really hap- 
pened. They think you merely went as guide. 
I never expected to see you alive again. I am 
not sure that I do now!” She smiled pitifully, 
and came near Andy to chafe his cold hands. 

“I’m alive,” the boy faltered. “But, oh! 
Ruth, I have lived years.” Then brokenly, and 
with aching heart, he told the story of the past 
hours. Ruth never took her eyes from his face, 
but her color came and went as she listened. 
The tale was ended at last, ended with all the 
tragic detail and the showing of the scraps of 
paper. Then Ruth stood up. 

“Andy,” she said, in her prompt fashion, “the 
house is empty. Mother has gone to your 


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THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


home, father will be away until to-morrow. The 
children are easily managed. Now I want you 
to go in the upper room after you have eaten. 
I want you to rest all day and then— then I have 
something to tell you and— there is more to do.” 

“Yes; these,” sighed Andy, looking at the 
papers. ‘ 6 1 should start at once with these. ’ ’ 

“ ’Twould be folly. There are awful doings 
afoot, Andy McNeal. It is no time for a mid- 
day walk to Harlem Heights. You must do as 
I say. Come in now; you are starved and ut- 
terly spent. ’ ’ 

Andy followed gladly. It was the course, the 
only course, of wisdom. 

He ate ravenously, and drank a quart of rich 
milk. Ruth was busied in the room above, and 
when the meal was finished Andy joined her. 

“Now,” she smiled, “everything is ready.” 
He found a pail of hot water, and some of the 
minister’s clothing lay on a chair. “They’ll 
have to do, Andy, until I can wash and dry 
yours,” said Ruth. 

“What matters?” answered Andy. “If I 
sleep I shall not mind the rest.” 


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THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


“I know. You must only obey now, Andy. 
Remember I love to do my share !” Tears 
stood in her brave eyes, and Andy understood. 

Andy fell asleep almost at once. The hot 
bath took the pain from his sore body, the clean, 
worn linen was cool and soothing, and the 
droning of the bees in the near-by hives hushed 
sorrow and weariness into deep oblivion. 

And while he dreamed of peaceful walks with 
the master under sunny skies, and smiled in the 
dreaming, Ruth had summoned Janie, and the 
mother sat waiting patiently the awakening. 
There was much to tell and more to do. But 
Andy dreamed on. 

Four o’clock! The tall clock in the living- 
room spoke loudly. Andy stirred and muttered 
something, then slept again. 

Five o ’clock ! The boy sat up on the narrow 
bed and stared into his mother’s face. 

Janie never flinched, though his pallor and 
the cut on his forehead made her heart ache. 

“Mother, I must get to Washington at once. 
I— I have a message.” 

“Yes, son.” 


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“I do not fear death. It comes but once !” 

“Yes, Andy, lad. But I’m thinking you’ll 
not be meeting death just now. It looks like 
you were singled out to live and act for all my 
old misgivings. God forgive me.” 

She bowed her head and it rested on Andy’s 
shoulder. Stern Janie had never done such a 
thing before, and even at the moment Andy was 
touched and moved. He smoothed the hair 
away from the pale face, and gently, lovingly 
kissed his mother. 

“There are strange happenings, Andy,” she 
sighed. 

“There are, indeed,” he agreed. 

“But things about which you know nothing, 
lad, and— and I must tell you before you go. 
Get up; dress, son. Ruth and I have made de- 
cent your own clothing. I can talk better while 
you move about. I cannot bear your eyes, my 
lad.” Andy arose at once and began his dress- 
ing, keeping his face turned from his mother, 
but her own was rigidly set toward the window. 

“Your father has come back, Andy!” 

A strange pause, then : 


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‘ ‘ My father ! ’ ’ Andy had dropped into a chair. 
The sentence had deprived him of strength to 
stand. He knew his mother never wasted 
words, or made rash statements. His father 
had come back! And Andy did not know that 
his father was alive. In fact, knew nothing of 
him, and that struck him for the first time with 
stunning force. Janie’s back was straight and 
firm. 

‘ ‘Yes, your father. I kept it all from you. 
I meant to tell you some day, Andy, but time 
passed and you asked no questions, and I— I 
thought everything was past and gone forever. 
But he has come back. ” 

‘ 4 Where is he f ’ ’ asked Andy. 

“ At home. He has been hurt, and is feverish 
and ill. He was doing sentinel duty for— for 
the British, and he received a terrible blow 
from some one in a cave. I cannot tell what 
is best to do, Andy, and I must look to you 
for help.” 

Somehow Andy had gotten to his feet, and 
staggered across the little room to his mother. 
Almost roughly he seized her hand, while the 


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awful truth unfolded itself from the dense dark- 
ness of the past. 

4 ‘Say that again !” he commanded. Janie 
looked at him in amazement. 

“Say what?” she asked. 

“That about the blow, and— and the cave!” 

Janie repeated it, wondering why that detail 
should so interest Andy. 

“You see,” she continued, not heeding his 
horrified look, “I married your father when I 
was very young. I look older than I be, lad. 
He brought me nothing but trouble. He was 
above me in station. He belonged to his ma- 
jesty’s regiment stationed here, and when the 
regiment was recalled he went— back ! Little he 
cared for the girl he left or the baby that bore 
his name! I managed, and neighbors helped 
me to forget, and— and I could not tell you Andy. 
I hoped I never would be obliged to. ’ ’ 

“Go on!” Andy still held his mother’s hand, 
but with infinite gentleness now. Tears stood 
in Janie’s eyes, and the human need for sym- 
pathy met an answering thrill in the heart of the 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


i ‘ He— he saw you yesterday at the pass, 
Andy, when they made you guide them after the 
troops, and your face frightened him. He says 
you look so like his mother, that it is just ter- 
rible. She has recently died, and her memory 
and the thought that his son might be alive and 
here, gave him a bad turn. He asked your 
name, and as I kept my own name after he de- 
serted me, he guessed the truth, and as soon as 
he could break away from the others he came 
to me— and— that is all, Andy. But what shall 
Ido?” 

Andy tried to think. Tried to bring events 
into orderly line and coherence, but the more he 
tried the more detached he felt, and as if the 
whole matter was one with which he had nothing 
to do. 

“I was so young, Andy, lad, only seventeen!” 
When had Janie ever pleaded before? 

“Yes,” murmured Andy. “I am nearly 
seventeen now. Seventeen years are long— 
sometimes. But, of course, you were very 
young . 9 ’ 

“And I had no one to guide me, Andy. I was 

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alone. I have always been alone, and it has 
been hard. ” A sob rose to the trembling lips. 
Andy looked at his mother, and, oddly enough 
through all the bewilderment, thought that she 
had a beauty he had never noticed before. 

“You were handsome, too,” he whispered. 
Janie started. 

“Yes,” she replied. “I suppose I was, then. 
Your voice is like his. It always was, Andy. 
That was one reason that at times I could not 
bear it. Oh, Andy! it is no easy matter to be 
a lonely woman!” The cry smote the listener, 
and his growing manhood reached out to her. 

“Mother, you are not alone. You have me. 
I will come back to you, stand by you, and we 
will see what is best to do. I must go on my 
errand, and I think you ought to go to— to 
father!” The word nearly choked him. 

“But suppose anything should happen to 
you?” Janie clung to the hand of this new, 
strange, but well-loved son, “whatever shall I 
do?” 

“I think I shall come back to you. I think I 
am needed, and it seems clear to me that I shall 


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come back.” Andy smiled into the troubled 
face, and tried to rouse himself into action. 

i ‘If you should fall into the hands of the 
British,” whispered Janie, “tell them you are 
the son of Lieutenant Theodore Martin; it may 
help you, son. ’ ’ 

“Your name is my name!” Andy proudly 
broke in. “I never shall seek favor through any 
other. If they take me, they take Andy McNeal, 
and if I come back I shall come bearing that 
name, until my mother bids me take another ! ’ ’ 

Janie bowed her head. It had been her first, 
only weak attitude toward her country. 

“You are right,” she quivered. “But I fear 
for you. ’ 9 

Presently his mother left him. He and she 
had work to do, and it must be done apart. A 
few minutes after she was gone, Ruth came up 
bearing a tray of food. She was limping pain- 
fully, and Andy, sitting by the window lost in 
thought, got to his feet in alarm. “You are 
hurt!” he cried. A smile spread over the girl’s 
pale face. 

“I’ma depraved sinner!” she said, setting the 
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tray on a stand and dropping into a chair. 
“ After the war is over I shall repent and take 
up godly ways. For the present I am a lost 
soul, and given over to Satan. Andy, the lie I 
told yesterday about the river road was the be- 
ginning of my downfall. How easily we glide 
downhill. ’ ’ 

“ ’Twas the only thing to do, Ruth,” nodded 
Andy. “I think such a lie grows innocent from 
the start. It was the object, Ruth. What else 
could you have done? It puzzles me sore to try 
and explain. I just leave the lie to God. He 
will understand.” 

“I have left it there, Andy, and from the joy 
and gladness I have felt, I believe there was 
nothing else to do. But this lameness, oh, 
Andy!” 

“How did it happen?” 

“Just as the lie did, Andy. This is a bodily 
lie.” 

“I do not understand, Ruth.” 

“Eat, and I will explain.” Andy began 
mechanically. He must be ready for his task in 
any case. Food was the first step. 


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THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


“I have been reading the Bible to the chil- 
dren, Andy. They wanted the story of David. 
As I read it seemed as if you were like David. 
When he went to meet Goliath, how impossible 
his victory seemed, but the hand that swung the 
sling was strong enough to win the day. 
Andy,” Ruth bent toward him, her face glowing, 
“you are strong enough to win against your 
Goliath !” 

“Mine!” 

“Yes; all the king’s men! You will get to 
Washington before another day is passed. But 
— you must let me help you . 9 1 

Andy set the cup of milk down and stared at 
the earnest face. 

“I’m very dull,” he said. “I only know that 
I must go. I do not see, now, that you can help. ’ ’ 

“You must not think of going abroad as Andy 
McNeal,” the girl explained. “They are watch- 
ing for you. Janie says that more than one 
Britisher has been to her door.” 

“Do you know—” Andy began. 

“Yes,” nodded Ruth, “but he is well hidden. 
It is you they are after. Then, too, I know 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


what the British expect to do. Hans Brickman 
found out and he is almost frightened to death 
with his secret. He thinks the British will see 
his secret written all over him, and he is afraid 
to go into camp— the patriot camp, you know. 
He has honey and butter to sell, and he sells to 
friend or foe. I’ve told him 1 will go with him 
to-night. ’ ’ 

4 4 What secret ? ’ ’ asked Andy, keen to the main 
point. 

4 4 The British war-ships are going up the 
river !” Ruth was whispering in Andy’s ear, 
not daring to trust her voice even in the little 
room. 4 4 Father says the General does not ex- 
pect this move, but they are getting ready down 
by the Battery. Father says the forts cannot 
stand a river attack.” 

4 4 But Washington must know this. He never 
is taken off guard.” Andy spoke proudly and 
with assurance. 

4 4 Well, any way,” said Ruth, 4 4 he is prepar- 
ing for a land attack. It is common talk. ’ 9 

44 Just a blind!” Andy broke in. But his face 
was troubled. 4 4 However, I must get these 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 

papers to him, and if I can I will speak to him. 
It can do no harm.” 

4 4 But you cannot go as you are, Andy. ’ ’ 

4 4 How then?” 

4 4 Why,” Ruth went to the door and dragged 
in a bundle, 4 4 in these!” She held up one of 
her own dresses, a big sunbonnet, and a neat 
white apron. 

4 4 Ruth!” Andy flushed hotly. 

44 I have sprained my ankle,” Ruth explained 
with an assumed whimper, 4 4 and poor Hans is 
about distracted. He is afraid to go peddling 
alone with his secret writ large in both Dutch 
and English on his foolish face. I have told 
him I will go lame or no lame. Fortunately he 
is hard of hearing and stupid as an owl in broad 
daylight. You might be less like me than you 
are, and Hans would not know. We have much 
to be thankful for, Andy.” 

4 4 Ruth, I cannot!” 

4 4 Andy, you shall!” They looked into each 
other’s eyes and then because they were young 
and brave, they smiled ; smiled above the danger 
and heartache. 


1 12 



IT TOOK ALL OF ANDY’S COURAGE TO DON THE 
FEMALE ATTIRE.” 
ii 3 


8 


SH 


























THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


4 ‘What a girl you are!” laughed Andy. 

“Yes, there are few like me,” sighed the 
girl. “Born to trouble as the sparks fly 
upward. ’ ’ 

“Born to deliver others from trouble, I verily 
believe,” added Andy. 

“Not a moment to spare!” commanded 
Ruth. “You have eaten a noble meal. I must 
go to my room to suffer now. When Hans bawls 
from the wagon, be ready, and remember the 
eggs are a shilling more to his majesty’s men 
than to Washington’s.” 9 

It took all Andy’s courage to don the female 
attire. He had never done so hard a thing, 
yet he knew that Ruth was right. If he hoped 
to reach the patriot camp he must not attempt 
it as Andy MtfNeal. “Next best then,” he 
thought, “is to go as Ruth White. God bless 
Ruth!” 

“Hi!” rose shrilly on the soft evening air, 
“hi ! we starts now!” 

It was Hans bellowing from the wagon. Andy 
plunged into the bonnet, whose big, flapping frill 
almost hid his face. He took his crutch— its aid 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


was not to be despised now— and hobbled down- 
stairs. 

“Washington is in the Morris Mansion !” 
Rutli whispered as he passed her door. 

Under his sunbonnet Andy turned scarlet, but 
he did not turn toward Ruth. 

“There goes our Ruthie to sell eggs,” called 
little Margaret White from over her bowl of 
milk in the kitchen. “Does your leg hurt awful, 
Ruthie?” 

Mrs. White at the table did not turn, but she 
said : 

“Take heed, Margaret, your milk is spilling. 
Ruth is all right. ” As in very truth she was. 

“We be late, already,” called Hans from his 
wagon. “Can you get up, miss?” 

Andy mounted slowly, and crouched behind 
Hans among the baskets and pails. The Dutch 
boy had but recently come over from Long Is- 
land to live with the parson. After the battle 
of Long Island he had fled to what he thought 
were more peaceful pastures for employment; 
but he had his doubts. Dangers pursued Hans, 
and he was sore distressed. It was necessary 

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for him to sell the products of the little farm, 
and, really, the danger of the parson’s daughter 
going along to straighten matters out, was no 
great matter. Peddlers, unless suspected, were 
allowed to pass the lines, and their wares paid 
for with more or less honesty. 


ii 7 


CHAPTER VIII 


AT HEADQUARTERS 

4 4 \ / OUR excellency, dar am a lame girl, an a 
I fool Dutchman outside. De girl done 
say, she’s got to delibber de eggs to 
yourself, sail!” 

4 4 Eggs!” The tall, anxious man at the table 
turned sharply. He was writing to Congress, 
and the interruption annoyed him. 

4 ‘ Y as, sah . ’ 1 The colored man bowed humbly. 
“Use been tellin’ dem we has eggs nouf, but the 
Dutchman he deaf as a stun wall, an’ de girl 
am dat sot, dat your own self couldn’t be sotter, 
sah. She done say her folks ’prived demselfs of 
food an’ drink, sah, to save dese eggs fur your 
excellency, an’ she goes on tu say, sah, dat she 
done been habbin’ de debbil’s own time gettin’ 
past de lines wid de eggs. She’s been ’suited by 
de British and odder hard things. She won’t 
go, sah, till I done tell you all dis rubbish.” 
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THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


‘ ‘ Bring her in, ’ ’ quietly said the listener. 

Washington never slighted the humble, and, 
besides, messages were sent in odd ways. It was 
always better to be willing to listen. The black 
man departed, muttering, and presently re- 
turned, showing the lame girl in with no very 
good grace. 

‘ ‘ Dat am de General ! ’ ’ he explained, shutting 
the heavy door after the limping figure. 

There was no need of explanation. The eyes 
under the drooping frill grew joyous at the sight 
of the honored face. The heart under the 
coarse cotton frock beat high with pride, and— 
yes, shame, for how was the boy to make him- 
self known! 

1 i Pray be seated, ’ ’ the deep voice was saying. 
“You are weary and you have taken chances of 
danger to reach me with your gift.” 

Andy sank into the nearest chair. 

“I appreciate your devotion and unselfish- 
ness, but I would advise no future attempts to 
pass the British lines for such a thing.” 

“There were other reasons, sir,” said Andy. 
Washington came nearer. 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


“I fancied so,” he said, “and they are?” 

Andy drew the basket of effgs to him, and un- 
wrapped several, handing the papers to Wash- 
ington. The General took them, crossed to the 
window, and for a few moments pieced the bits 
together carefully. Then he read. Andy 
watched him, remembering that other face in 
the greenhouse on the never-to-be-forgotten 
night. 

‘Where did you get these?” he said sud- 
denly. Andy stood up leaning upon his crutch. 

“A messenger, in time of danger, must come 
as he may, sir, ’ ’ he said, bravely. Then tearing 
off the bonnet he added : 

“Andy McNeal, at your service, sir!” Wash- 
ington’s face never betrayed him, but a glad 
look came to the overweary eyes. He ex- 
tended his hand, and grasped Andy’s. 

“I remember!” he said. “You have been 
true to your trust. And now for the story.” 

Sitting in the stately room of the mansion, 
opposite the great General, Andy McNeal told 
his story. Try as he might, his voice would 
break, but he thought no shame of his weakness, 


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THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE' 


for the keen eyes looking into his own were 
often dim. 

“I asked a great thing of Nathan Hale,” said 
the General at last, “but he gave it willingly. 
Andy McNeal, you have been a faithful friend 
to as great a hero as the Revolution will ever 
know. Many offer their lives. He offered his 
honor. Willing was he to die, and to die dis- 
honored by the many. Some day his country 
will understand. ’ ’ 

“And, sir, do you know the British are bring- 
ing their ships up the river V 9 

Washington’s eyes gleamed. “I have sent 
men to Frog’s Point,” he smiled. “They will 
meet a welcome when they land. Thank you. 
And now farewell. Take heed as you return. 
You are safer without a guard. ” 

“Is there no work for me to do? Is there no 
place in the ranks for such as I ? ” 

The tremendous question broke from Andy’s 
lips. To go back into idleness was his one 
dread. He longed to follow ; to be the humblest, 
but most patriotic, of the many. Washington 
understood. 


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“I must leave here directly,” he answered. 
“Ere another week passes I shall be gone. 
Where future battles are to be fought, remains 
to be seen, but always, my first object is to 
guard the Hudson. I need faithful hearts here. 
I shall not forget you, Andy McNeal, nor your 
service. If I can use you, be ready. I shall 
know where to find you. You are sure to be 
more useful here than elsewhere. You know 
your woods as few others do, and I know I can 
depend upon your courage and faithfulness. 
Again farewell.” 

Andy arose, drew on the disguising headgear, 
not even thinking of it, so full was his heart, and 
so he departed to face whatever lay before. 

The immediate thing that faced Andy McNeal 
was the meeting with his own father. It took 
all the courage he possessed to do this, and yet 
he knew that he could not begin to live again 
until the new complications had been grappled 
with and readjusted. 

After dark of the same day upon which 
Andy had seen Washington, he reached his 
mother’s little house. Hans and he had had 


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THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


several encounters with the British, but a thick- 
headed, deaf Dutchman, and a young, fright- 
ened lame girl, with a hideous bonnet, served 
only for a moment’s idle sport for the king’s 
gallant men. And after annoying delays they 
were allowed to pass with a warning to come 
soon with more food, or their houses would be 
burned over their heads. 

Andy paused outside the cottage. He heard 
his mother moving about, and the indistinct 
voice of a man from the guest-room beyond. 

4 ‘The vine again!” thought Andy. But the 
ascent in the gown was difficult. “A maid’s 
progress is bitter hard!” smiled he, and he 
thought tenderly of Ruth. 

The little loft-room seemed oddly changed to 
Andy. He looked about. -Everything was the 
same, and yet— 

“It is that voice below-stairs, ” muttered he. 
“It alters everything.” A feeling of hatred 
crept in Andy ’s heart against this man who had 
suddenly assumed so close a relationship to him. 

“What will mother do?” he questioned as he 
changed his clothing, and put on the decent Sun- 


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THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


day-suit that was hanging from the pegs. 
“What will she do!” And in his heart Andy 
knew what she would do, what, at least, she 
would want to do. He had seen it shining back 
of the trouble in her eyes when she first spoke 
to him. The want had brought the look of 
beauty with it, and had banished the marks of 
the lonely years. 

“But a Britisher !” moaned the boy, smooth- 
ing his hair, “a Britisher for Janie and Andy 
McNeal! I might forgive him for all else— 
for mother’s sake, but not that, not that!” 

“Andy, lad, is it you?” Andy started. His 
mother was coming up the stairs ! 

“Yes, mother.” She stood before him now. 
The coarse cotton gown that was familiar to 
Andy’s boyhood was gone. A dull, bluish linen 
with white cuffs and collar had replaced it, and 
above the becoming dress shone the face of a 
new Janie. 

A jealous pang struck Andy’s heart, and he 
shivered in spite of himself. 

‘ ‘ I thought I heard you, lad. You are safe ? ’ ’ 

* * Quite safe, mother. ’ ’ 


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THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 

‘ ‘ But sair tired ? ’ ’ she dropped into the Scotch 
unconsciously. 

“Not overtired. I did my errand well. ” 

“And now, Andy, what next?” 

“Nothing*. Since I cannot follow and fight, 
I must bide at home and wait. Does any one 
come here for help from the patriot army we 
must be ready, mother.” 

“Aye, surely, lad. You know where my 
heart lies ! ’ ’ 

“But, mother, the— the person below. He is 
—a deserter if he is found here. What then? 
And surely not even he must keep us from doing 
our duty.” 

“Lad” (Janie came close), “I cannot hope to 
have you understand. When love comes your 
way, Andy, it wrll plead for me. All these 
years I have been a starved and forsaken 
woman, and it has changed me. We all go 
astray, Andy, and— and your father. Oh! call 
him that, son, for my sake. Your father has 
dealt sorely with me and yoit, but he has come 
back. He was hunting us long before he found 
us. He wants to mend the past. Andy, as we 


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THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


hope for mercy from the good God, let us be 
merciful. ’ ’ 

4 ‘But a Britisher, mother. An enemy to our 
cause. Oh, mother !” 

“Andy, lad, come!” She put out her hand 
pleadingly, and Andy followed. There was a 
candle burning in the guest-room, and by its 
modest gleam sat the man who, when Andy had 
seen him last, was proclaiming his own son to 
be the rebel who had presumably struck one of 
the king’s men in the cave. Very pale was the 
man now, and the bruise on the forehead shone 
plain even in the dim light. He looked up at 
Andy in a curious, interested way, and half ex- 
tended his hand. 

“You do not care to take the hand of a 
Britisher, I see.” The white face relaxed in a 
faint smile. Andy went nearer. 

“For my mother’s sake I can take my— my 
father’s hand, though it all seems mighty 
queer. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I want you to know, ’ ’ said the man, ‘ ‘ that I 
would not have told my head officer who you 
were that day, but I was so alarmed at the like- 


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THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


ness you bore my mother that I was unaware of 
what I was doing. It was horrible to realize as 
I was beginning to do then, that I was probably 
speaking to my own-son.” 

“It was more horrible to think that my own 
father had been struck by a blow dealt in my 
defense. You must have thought that, too.” 

“No, I did not. Who struck that blow?” 

“Nathan Hale.” 

The man started. “And he?” 

‘ ‘ Died the death of a spy two days ago. ’ * 

‘ 1 Andy ! ” It was J anie who cried out. “Was 
our dear schoolmaster, Nathan Hale, the spy?” 

“Nathan Hale, the patriot!” corrected Andy, 
and his eyes dimmed. 

“Oh! how you have suffered, lad.” 

“Aye.” Andy sank into a chair. 

His father was looking at him keenly; and a 
growing expression of admiration was dawning 
in the searching eyes. Here was a son of whom 
he might yet be proud. 

“Andy,” he said, “I can imagine your feel- 
ing toward me. I do not say I do not deserve 
it. But your mother is willing to forgive the 


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THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


past, if you are willing to give me a trial.’ ’ The 
thin lips twitched. Martin was a proud man, 
and his humble diet seemed never to be coming 
to an end. The hard young face opposite ap- 
peared more unrelenting than Janie’s had 
seemed. 

“What is best for mother is best for me,” 
said Andy. “I am almost a man. When the 
war is over I shall try to do a man’s part in 
the world. Each one of us has his life.” 

Martin again became serious. ‘ 4 1 have money, 
Andy ; I can help you, and give you a fair start. ’ ’ 

“Your money will make mother’s life easier. 
It has been a hard life.” 

“There, there, Andy, lad! Do not be bitter, 
son.” 

“Not bitter, mother. But I cannot forget. 
Not just at first.” 

“I can educate you, Andy,” Martin added. 
“You might take that help from a stranger, and 
repay it later on.” 

A hungry look came into the boy’s eyes. The 
teaching of the master had awakened an appetite 
that would not sleep. “I did without for many 


128 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


years,” he replied. But Martin had seen the 
gleam, and was proud. 

u In a day or so, Andy, ’ ’ he went on, ‘ 4 1 must 
ask a favor of you. I want you to guide me to 
the patriot headquarters.” The boy started. 
“I came half-heartedly to fight against the 
colonies. It is my desire to throw my lot in 
with theirs now. You may be able to do me a 
favor with your General. He will know you. 
If I come back you may be able to respect your 
father. If not— your mother has a good son, 
and Parson White will see that what belongs to 
you two will be yours . 1 1 

‘ 6 Father ! ’ ’ Andy arose, and this time stretched 
forth his hand gladly. “Father, I will try to 
be a good son to you, too!” 

“Thank God!” sobbed Janie, kneeling by the 
chair, and drawing Andy within the circle of 
her new hopes. 

The old clock ticked and ticked contentedly. 
The hissing of the kettle on the fire recalled 
Janie to her happy tasks, and Martin and his 
son wondered what the future would bring. 


g—Then Marched the Brave. 


129 


CHAPTER IX 


PEACE 

4 4 NLY the cane now, Andy. The days of 
crutches are over!” 

“Yes, Ruth, the country, the dear 
free country and I can nearly go alone now.” 
Andy stood up proudly and beamed upon the 
pretty girl standing by his mother. 

“I declare!” he laughed, “you look but little 
older than Ruth, mother!” 

“Box his ears well, lass,” said Janie, mightily 
pleased. “He struts, does Andy, and you and 
I must take him down. ’ ’ 

“Come,” Andy broke in, “we must start 
now. Wrap up well, girls,” he laughed again, 
“ ’tis bitter cold, and the way is long.” 

“No cold can reach me!” cried Janie, pulling 
her hood well over her happy face. “Warm 
hearts make glowing bodies. To think, lad, he 
will be with us to-night ! ’ ’ 

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THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


The door of the little house was drawn to and 
locked. All within was beautiful and ready for 
the patriot who that night would return full of 
honors for the part he had played during the 
last two years. 

“Yes. He will be with us, mother, ” echoed 
Andy. He looked at Ruth. He had learned to 
understand his mother now, and Ruth had 
shown him the way. 

“It was no light matter/ ’ said the girl, keep- 
ing step with Andy over the crisp snow, “for 
you— your father to be a patriot. He was not 
only a patriot but a deserter from the king’s 
army. In every battle he had to face that.” 

“Yes,” broke in Janie, “and when he went 
with Wayne to storm Stony Point, he was 
nearly captured, as you will remember. And the 
British yelled at him, ‘ Don’t shoot that deserter, 
lead’s too good for him. We’ll try an Indian 
trick on him!’ ” 

Andy’s face grew grave. “He’s a brave 
man,” he whispered, and drew Janie’s arm 
within his own. And so the little party came to 
Fraunce’s Tavern, and bided near the room in 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


which Washington and his officers were dining 
before the General departed for Annapolis, 
where he was to lay down his commission, for 
the war was over, and peace had come to the 
young country. 

“Andy,” said Janie, closing the door of the 
small room which had been reserved for them, 
“ ’twas great luck that my host’s wife and I are 
friends. Think of us having this to ourselves, 
and the great General right in the next room. 
Ruth, lass, there is a communicating door, as 
true as I live! Andy, draw away the sofa.” 

“Mother, you would not be an eaves- 
dropper?” 

“God forbid! Ruthie, is there a keyhole?” 

“No keyhole, but a good generous crack in 
the panel! Hurry, Andy, with the sofa, the 
thing weighs a ton. Push ! ’ ’ 

“Ruth! We cannot spy upon the General.” 
Andy tried to look severe. 

“I can!” laughed the girl, mounting the sofa, 
and applying her eye to the crack. “I’m afraid 
the Revolution has demoralized me, but I must 
see the thing through. Andy, they look— they 


132 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


look magnificent !’ ’ Ruth was quivering on her 
perch. J anie flung prudence and dignity to the 
winds, and climbed to Ruth’s side, and, being 
taller, gained a portion of the crack above the 
girl ’s head. 

“I can see no one but the General!” she said. 
“ The crack is over-narrow for such doings !” 

“ There is no one but Washington!” breathed 
Andy, and he lifted his head proudly. 

“Yes, there are others,” whispered Ruth, mis- 
understanding, “and if you run your eye up and 
down the crack quickly, you can catch a sight 
of them. The crack is wider in some parts . 9 9 

“Heaven save us, lass!” (Ruth’s head had 
come in violent contact with Janie’s chin). 
“You have loosened my teeth!” 

‘ ‘ They are going to drink a toast ! ’ ’ said Ruth, 
not heeding the accident, but thrilling with ex- 
citement. “Andy, ’tis no wrong we are doing. 
The General’s voice can be heard distinctly, and 
I vow there are a dozen heads at every window 
opening on the porch. The crack is fine down 
here. I can see everything ! ’ ’ 

Andy stood still. 


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THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


4 ‘He is raising his glass !” said Ruth near the 
floor. 

“With my heart full of love and gratitude I 
now take leave of you all. Most devoutly wish- 
ing that your latter days may be as prosperous 
and happy as your former ones have been glori- 
ous and honorable.” 

“His eyes are full of tears!” almost sobbed 
Ruth, and the eyes of them in the little room 
were dim. Glasses clinked together, then the 
full voice went on : 

“I cannot come to each one of you and take 
my leave, but I shall be obliged if you will come 
and take my hand.” They needed no second 
bidding those comrades, tried and true. One b} r 
one, feeling no shame in their manly show of 
sorrow, they grasped their General’s faithful 
hand and parted from him with bowed heads. 

4 ‘ They are going out ! ’ ’ panted J anie. ‘ ‘ N ow, 
Andy, for the hall. We must meet him at the 
door.” 

As he came from the banquet room, Washing- 
ton and his officers met the three. He knew 
Andy at a glance, and then recognized Janie. 


134 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


lie took them by the hand, and bowed in courtly 
fashion. 

“Patriots all ! ’ ’ he smiled. “You well de- 
serve your hard-earned peace.’ ’ 

They joined the throngs which followed 
Washington to the river. They stood upon the 
Battery until the barge which bore the gallant 
figure away faded from sight. So lost were 
they in admiration that for a moment none of 
them noticed a tall figure approaching dressed 
in Continental uniform. Then Janie saw him. 
Her face flushed like a girl’s. 

“Andy!” she whispered, pulling her son’s 
sleeve, “see, here is your—” 

4 ‘ Father ! ’ ’ greeted Andy, and stretched out a 
welcoming hand. 

Back to the lonely pass the four went, Janie 
and Martin on ahead. 

“And now,” questioned Buth in a soft 
whisper, “what comes next, Andy?” 

“I am to study. Ah ! Ruth, how I shall study ! 
I mean to learn all that I can and carry the best 
to them who call me. ’ ’ 

“You really mean to be a minister?” 


135 


THEN MARCHED THE BRAVE 


4 4 That I do, God willing !” answered Andy, 
reverently. 

44 Tis a hard life, Andy.” 

4 ‘For that I love it.” 

4 4 Have you thought where you would like to 

got” 

4 4 Just where the most urgent call comes. 
Ruth, the life is hard—” 

44 I know the life, Andy, and love it!” 

4 4 Could you— could you, Ruth!” 

4 4 Keep on living it! Yes, dear. Who so well 
fitted as I!” 

They paused on the snowy path, and looked 
into each other’s brave eyes. 

44 1 wonder if any life is really hard, dear 
Ruth, where—” 

4 4 Love lifts the burden! I think not, Andy. 
Love bears the weight. We take the glory. It 
is a wonderful thing.” 

The red glow of the winter sunset seemed to 
warm the snow-covered earth, and in the still 
beauty the two followed Janie and Martin. 

The End 


136 









AUG 18 1904 









